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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26703913">Running the Bases</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreckledSkittles/pseuds/FreckledSkittles'>FreckledSkittles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Law &amp; Order: SVU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Baseball, Banter, Baseball Player Sonny Carisi, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Ghostwriter Rafael Barba, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Smut, Writers, a staple of mine at this point, bearded Rafael Barba, bearded barba rights, just a little</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:42:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>57,483</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26703913</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreckledSkittles/pseuds/FreckledSkittles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Their contract for a book deal detailed how they would write a memoir for retired New York Mets pitcher Sonny Carisi. It didn’t have details for falling in love, so they added their own.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rafael Barba/Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>77</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. First Inning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'll add more to the tags as I go BUT this is the fic I've been working on for MONTHS. There was a Barisi fandom event a few months ago and it was supposed to be a one-page oneshot and here we are at nine chapters and an epilogue which is really offensive bc I have other multi-chapter fics to focus on but you know what I don't expect anything less from me</p><p>Anyway, I'm posting a chapter every day, but this one is short, so the second one will be coming up immediately after this one. I hope you enjoy!! </p><p>Thanks as always to soul_writerr for her continuous support while I wrote this and guidance. I cannot thank you enough for helping me and listening to my chaos as I put this down &lt;3 &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>T1</p><p> </p><p>*BREAKING NEWS* METS PITCHER SONNY CARISI ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT</p><p>During a press conference Tuesday, the lefty relief pitcher for the New York Mets made the announcement that he would be putting away his glove and saying goodbye to Citi Field.</p><p>“It’s been an honor to play for a team like this and in front of the best fans in the Major League,” Carisi, a born and raised Mets fan from Staten Island, said. “Every time I got called out to the mound, I thanked whoever’s listening to me upstairs that I get to do what I love for the same diehard fans I grew up with.”</p><p>In his career for the Mets, Carisi played as a relieving pitcher who specialized in sliders and cut fastballs. His fastballs were most effective when he changed his windup timing on the pitch, a practice he shares with new Mets pitcher Marcus Stroman and Kansas City Royal Johnny Cueto, who helped defeat the Mets in the 2015 Wild Card game.</p><p>Carisi was born on February 29th, 1980 as Dominick Carisi, Jr. and was raised on Staten Island. He earned the nickname Sonny as a young boy because he wanted a name of his own and was active in helping others in his community, a practice he still carries today. In high school, he gained the attention of baseball scouts and considered attending Mississippi State University and the University of California, Los Angeles, but ultimately decided to stay home in New York and attend Fordham University. In an interview after getting called up from the Brooklyn Cyclones in 2009, he credited a dedication to higher education in his decision.</p><p>“Fordham offered a six-year program that let me get a Bachelor’s in three years and a law degree in three more,” he explained. “I always wanted to be a lawyer, and they have a phenomenal law program, so going there made a lot of sense to me.”</p><p>Carisi played for Fordham for all six years of his college career. He made his first appearance as a freshman in an April 8th game against Wagner College, where the Fordham Rams beat the Seahawks 14-10. His season-best came in 2005, where he helped the Rams earn the third seed in the Atlantic 10 Conference and the second ranking in the East Division. Carisi’s last year at Fordham resulted in a career-best 22 appearances, a 5-1 record, and a team-best 9 saves. Shortly after graduating from law school, Carisi was drafted in the 10th round to the New York Mets, an accomplishment he describes as a dream he hasn’t woken up from. He played for the Brooklyn Cyclones in the minor league and was called up to the New York Mets in 2009.</p><p>Throughout his ten-year career, Carisi became a relief ace, often appearing after fellow former Mets pitcher Mike Dodds, who together had a combined 92 wins in the times they had joint appearances. In 2015, the two were responsible for 14 of 23 series wins, including a win in the National League East Championship Game for their division. Dodds was an ace starter for the Mets and was often relieved by Carisi, which created an Internet sensation debuting their close friendship and sportsmanship for the duration of their careers. Dodds went out with a shoulder injury in June 2017 against the Chicago Cubs and announced his retirement towards the end of the season.</p><p>Outside of baseball, Carisi has been known to participate in multiple community events and charities. He has been a vocal advocate and financial supporter of The Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual &amp; Transgender Community Center in New York City and The Joyful Heart Foundation run by longtime friend Olivia Benson. He credits his family’s monthly visits to homeless shelters on Staten Island, supplying fresh food for Sunday dinners, as his reason for maintaining a practice of vigorous philanthropy.</p><p>Carisi followed up the press conference with questions, which is transcribed below:</p><p>
  <b>Q: Now that you’re retiring from baseball, will you be putting your law degree to use?</b>
</p><p>Carisi: [laughs] I hope so! I always wanted to be a lawyer. I just ended up better at baseball than I imagined, so I had to put that on hold. But I’ve considered a few ways to get back into that, so we’ll see what happens when the right opportunity comes up.</p><p>
  <b>Q: Will you be staying in New York?</b>
</p><p>Carisi: Absolutely. I haven’t been to a Mets game as a fan in a long time. My family’s here. I’m not going anywhere. Plus, I just signed my apartment lease for another year, so I can’t really break that. [laughs]</p><p>
  <b>Q: How have your teammates handled this information? Did you have this decision planned out in advance or was it sudden?</b>
</p><p>Carisi: We’ve talked about it. It’s definitely not a surprise to anyone on the team. I first brought it up with [New York Mets Manager] Donald Cragen around the end of the season last year. I felt like I was getting closer to my time to go, and I’m very fortunate to have stayed on the Mets for the entirety of my baseball career. So we knew it was coming, my teammates knew it was coming, Cragen knew. The only thing we didn’t know is which season it would end with. And this season, I feel like I’ve done a lot of good here and that I’ve done just about everything I wanted. We feel good about this, y’know?</p><p>
  <b>Q: Has [former New York Yankees third baseman] Nick Amaro reacted or reached out to you?</b>
</p><p>Carisi: [laughs] Yeah, I got an earful about it when I told Nick. I didn’t think I would get to be such good friends with a Yankees player. But Nick is extraordinary—he knows the pitch you’re throwing like he threw it himself, he can crack a joke about you one second but stand up for you in the next. I actually feel like we got closer because of this. He decided to step down, what was it, four years ago? And when I first started thinking about it last season, I reached out to him, and we met for coffee and he helped talk me through some of the doubt I was feeling. He said you don’t wanna leave too early and you don’t wanna leave too late. I’ll know when it’s time to try something else, to step away from the game, and I feel comfortable with that now. I’m thankful to have Nick talk with me and be there for me. I consider him a good friend of mine.</p><p>
  <b>Q: What about your former teammate, Mike Dodds?</b>
</p><p>Carisi: Oh, of course. We actually had dinner last night. I made some eggplant parm and he brought over some cheesecake he made. We didn’t even watch baseball this time. [laughs] But he’s been there, just like Nick has. Mike was pitching for the Mets a few years before me, but to us, it always felt like we were meant to play together. Nick actually joked that we both had our times to play as separate players, and we’re meant to play on the same team. And it does kinda feel like that, y’know? But Mike got injured before he retired, so he saw that as his sign. I could have played a few more years, but my contract was up this year anyway and it feels better to leave now when I want to than to drag on for five more years.</p><p>
  <b>Q: Has your family been supportive of this decision?</b>
</p><p>Carisi: Definitely. I mean, they always have, y’know? I used to think it’s because I’m the only son of three daughters, and even though I have one younger sister, everyone considers me the baby of the family, so people think you have a lot more leeway that way. But no, they’ve been super supportive—maybe a little more cautious than I thought. They know I love baseball, and we love the Mets—my dad jokes we were born to love this team. But they also know I have other things in mind. Baseball is not my only option.</p><p>
  <b>Q: So do you have a plan for what you’ll do now?</b>
</p><p>Carisi: Sorta. I have something in mind. I’ve been praying about it when I first considered what’s after baseball for me—call it the good Catholic kid in me. I was terrified of only having baseball in my life since I’ve done it for so long. But I have a degree, I have hobbies, I have interests. I’m not going to end up bored or lost because a big constant in my life is now gone.</p><p>Carisi: And because my non-baseball agent says it’s okay to talk about it, I have been in touch with a publisher to write a book in the future. I was approached about this at the beginning of the season and I think it’ll be a good opportunity to tell my story in a way I haven’t been able to before.</p><p>Carisi: Thank you all so much for being here. I really appreciate your questions. And I’ll see you on the other side. Let’s go Mets.</p><p> </p><p>B1</p><p> </p><p>Sonny turns to his agent, Amanda, when she shuts the car door and pulls out her phone. He had expected a few questions, but not the attention that he got when he announced a book. He almost felt like some high-ranking politician leaving the room to a slew of questions all at once. Amanda had signaled to him at the very end of the meeting, typically when she tells him to wrap it up, that he could reveal the news about the book, as gestured with her typical hard nod and a point to the book in her hand. “Why the change of heart?” He asks. “You told me not to talk about the book.”</p><p>“Change of plans,” she says curtly. Amanda Rollins has been his agent outside of baseball since 2015 after the Mets won the National League East title game. Overall, he’s appreciated having her as a manager and doubts he would be as successful outside of baseball if it wasn’t for her. And when he got her to lower her guard and talk outside of work, she was great company. Her phone is pressed to her ear when she turns to him. “We found someone to help you out—hi, this is Amanda Rollins, manager for Sonny Carisi, is Rita Calhoun there?”</p><p>Sonny frowns. “What do you mean ‘help me out’? I thought I was writing it—” He shuts up at the incredulous look Amanda shoots him and sags into the backseat.</p><p>The book idea had come to him. Nick’s agent Trevor Langan had sent Amanda the contact information of a publishing company that was interested in hearing from an athlete for an upcoming book release. Sonny, according to Amanda in both her own words and from those allegedly stated by the publisher, was that person. He still had some doubts, especially after finding out that the publisher specialized in movie stars and rarely delved toward athletes. The closest they had gotten, according to Sonny’s research, was Michael Strahan, but nowadays he was more of a celebrity and television personality than an athlete.</p><p>It’s strange, to say the least. Sonny considers himself well-known among Mets and baseball fans. His career as a relief pitcher always had ups and downs, but his friendship with Mike Dodds had raised his relevancy, according to Amanda. There were gifs and reaction photos of the two of them, from press conferences after a game to plays on the field to dugout jokes broadcasted on television that are still being shared and commonly used on the baseball side of social media. Sonny can’t remember a time where he wasn’t aware of his impact, but it’s strange to think a book publisher who solely focuses on celebrities would want to write about him.</p><p>Maybe there’s an explanation for it. Or maybe he simply doesn’t realize how vital his story can be for them.</p><p>After a few minutes of an amicable back-and-forth over the phone, Amanda hangs up and turns to Sonny. “Do you know who Cunei Books is?”</p><p>“The publisher that ghostwrites for celebrities,” he scoffs. “Sure.” He understood why some people used ghostwriters for their books. He simply wasn’t one of them.</p><p>Amanda scowls at that and smacks his shoulder. “Don’t act like that around them. They’re interested in writing your story. They have an opening right now, so they’re able to take us and discuss the more intimate details of a possible contract.”</p><p>“Are they.” Sonny looks out the window at the passing scenery. They’re nearing the Queensboro Bridge that will bring them to Manhattan. “Who said I wanted a ghostwriter?”</p><p>“They were the first ones at the table and they have a good offer. You should take it.”</p><p>One of the reasons why Sonny appreciated Amanda as a manager and publicist were because of the amount of freedom she gave him. If there was something she found that he should do, she would suggest it, but ultimately, she let him make the decision. She wasn’t going to force him into anything. “Well,” Sonny huffs, “we’re already heading there, right?”</p><p>“We can turn around.”</p><p>Sonny shakes his head. Even if they weren’t, this could be the only deal he has to write a book. It had been his idea to release one in the first place. Ignoring the call from Cunei Books could be more of a lost opportunity than a wasted trip. “I’ll hear them out. Better to swing and strike out than to miss a home run, right?”</p><p>Amanda rolls her eyes. “I can see why you don’t bat.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Second Inning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I also wanted to add this chapter today bc Rafael makes a special guest appearance and he has a beard because I SAID SO</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>T2</p><p> </p><p>Cunei Books is located on the eastern side of Manhattan, offering a lovely view of Roosevelt Island from the lobby windows. The publishing company resides on the ninth floor of its building, the lobby decorated with a deep maroon carpet and dark wood furniture. Picture frames adorn the walls with celebrities, actors, and what can only be the writers in charge of their books, all big smiles with cheeks dusty from alcohol—the picture frames are expensive and the air freshener they have is covering everything with a thick, rich scent. Judging by looks alone, Sonny muses as he looks around, everything within reach is expensive. It suddenly feels like he stepped into a five-star restaurant after a big win, even if his slim attire and dark gray suit are still neatly pressed and without a waft of sweat or a clump of dirt.</p><p>A woman walks out from a glass office across the room, her smile more professional than joyful, and meets them in a few easy steps. She’s dressed just as nice as the room and looks just as perfect, hair shining like caramel and dipping over her shoulder. She reaches a hand out as she approaches and Amanda takes it with equal gusto. “Amanda Rollins, I’m assuming?” She asks, her expression only glowing more when she nods. “It’s good to meet you in person. I’m Rita Calhoun, the co-founder of Cunei Books.”</p><p>“It’s a pleasure,” Amanda says and gestures to Sonny, who takes Rita’s hand with a firm shake and a smile. Rita almost crushes his fingers in her palm. “And this is Sonny Carisi.”</p><p>Rita winks at him when she pulls her hand back. “In the flesh. That was a rousing speech you gave at the press conference.” Her smile widens into a sly smirk. “For a Mets fan, you’re very articulate.”</p><p>Sonny chuckles and shrugs, a bit of his nerves easing away at Rita’s voice despite her teasing. It’s smooth and deep, though not too much, almost resembling velvet. “What can I say? I’m a tried and true Yankee. I just chose the baseball team with an original name.”</p><p>Rita throws her head back with a—courtesy—laugh and looks at Amanda. “You didn’t mention he was quick on his feet.” She grabs Sonny’s shoulder and squeezes tightly. “I like you.”</p><p>Rita leads them into her office, a bit more colorful than the lobby, with swatches of dark oranges and striking reds coloring the couch in the corner and the two armchairs in front of her desk. Its walls are made of glass to give it a more modern style. Her desk is wide and eggshell white, the legs slanted and angled out to make it appear larger than it is. She seats them at the two chairs in front of her desk and makes a cup of coffee at the table to their left, offering cups and one of the many variables of snacks in a brown wicker basket. She sets aside a bag of pretzels while her coffee brews and turns to them.</p><p>“Cunei Books specializes in writing for people you see in films and television shows,” she states. Her demeanor is still posh and professional, but the humor and playful behavior have dissipated into something more stoic. “Cuneiform was one of the earliest writing systems in recorded human history and today, it requires a full comprehension of its format to even decipher one word. As ghostwriters, we develop the writing style of a person and decipher their thoughts and feelings so that the finished product sounds like them, much like an archaeologist transcribes a cuneiform tablet to replicate what the Sumerians were writing.”</p><p>Sonny frowns when she mentions ghostwriting. Despite his conversation with Amanda about it earlier, he was still against the idea. If he was going to write a book, he wanted to do it himself. No one should take that away from him. Not only that, but it wouldn’t technically be his book if someone else did the work for him.</p><p>Amanda stops him from saying anything—probably on purpose, knowing her—with an understanding hum and a nod. “Interesting. I read about your history on your website, but I didn’t realize how intricate it was.”</p><p>Rita smirks. “I took a few ancient history classes in college. But my partner thinks it’s because I dated an anthropology major for four years. Speaking of which,” she walks over to the phone on her desk and presses a button. “Carmen, would you mind letting Rafael know I’m meeting with Carisi and Rollins?”</p><p>“<em>On it</em>,” a voice responds, and Rita returns to her coffee, pouring a hot cup into a crimson mug.</p><p>“Rafael Barba is my business partner,” Rita explains. “He helped co-found Cunei Books.”</p><p>“How did that happen?” Sonny asks.</p><p>“We both went to Harvard. I majored in English with a concentration in literature, he was pre-law. We ended up graduating from Harvard Law and passing the bar, but,” Rita smirks as she takes a sip of her coffee, “there’s something incredibly boring about corporate law and helping white-collar jerks get off. I could do so much more with my time than that.”</p><p>Sonny suddenly feels so much smaller than when he entered the building. His own accomplishments of passing university in six years with a law degree and maintaining a steady career in major-league baseball are inferior to the name alone of their alma mater. If Amanda notices, she doesn’t say anything, just whistles softly and shakes her head. “Harvard Law. And you got bored with it.”</p><p>Rita chuckles and shrugs. “Some people would call it a typical Sagittarius move, getting bored of regular routines and changing it sporadically.”</p><p>Amanda smiles playfully at that. “Can’t be much worse than an Aries.”</p><p>Sonny never got into astrology, making the conversation meaningless to him, but Rita perks up at that and breaks into a wide grin. “Not at all. It’s great company, if you ask me.” Her professionalism reappears instantly, almost dramatic with the flourish she gives the hair draped over her shoulder and the adjustment to her posture. “But my partner and I founded Cunei Books to make publications ourselves, whether that included sponsoring writers and publishing their books or writing them for authors. I handle the typical management duties and he specializes in the more legal aspects of our business.” She pauses to roll her eyes. “He claims it’s the best thing for him to do, but he’s just as much of a writer as anyone else here.”</p><p>“On the phone, you said he would be the one writing for Sonny, right?” Amanda asks. She continues at Rita’s nod; “Do you have any samples of his writing we could look at while we wait for him?”</p><p>“Oh, of course!” Rita hops to her feet and grabs a binder from the bookshelf behind her. She opens it up to separate the rings and removes a few sheets protected in plastic. Sonny gets lost in the conversation, wondering how long it would be until he can sleep and forget this day. The press conference had been fine, but this meeting was dull.</p><p>The thought of someone writing for him sounded disingenuous to what he knew his entire life. His family taught him to be anything but untrue to himself, always encouraging him to help others, to never be afraid to speak his mind, and to always work as hard as he could to reach his goals. It’s what he and all three of his sisters learned as Carisi’s. Having a ghostwriter did not sound like something for Sonny, especially when he was able to write for himself. The idea of it was a foreign concept that, he felt, compromised his character. And what sucked most of all is that he didn’t have much of a choice.</p><p>Hopefully, he muses to himself as he scrolls through messages on social media and texts, the ghostwriter won’t complicate it.</p><p> </p><p>B2</p><p> </p><p>Rita’s office phone buzzes and she reaches over from where she and Amanda are still standing at her bookshelf with another binder to hold the intercom button down. “<em>Rafael is on his way,</em>” Carmen, the woman from before, says with resignation. “<em>I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you sooner.</em>”</p><p>Rita smirks. “Did he barrel through the doors before you could say anything?”</p><p>“<em>How could you tell?</em>” The tone from the phone suggests this isn’t something new. Sonny’s gut drops. “<em>It’s probably leftovers from the Buchanan bio. That was his last appointment.</em>”</p><p>Suddenly, the door to Rita’s office swings open and a well-dressed man storms through. There’s a determined step to his stride that dares anyone watching to get in his way and see what happens. Despite being shorter than Sonny—he doesn’t need to be standing to tell, he just reaches Amanda’s height—he commands the whole room with his presence. “Rita, we need to do something about James, I can’t stand him anymore,” the man says, voice crisp and sharp with boiling irritation. “He’s disruptive, he’s uncooperative, and he refuses to compromise if we can’t meet his demands. Why are we still writing for him?”</p><p>“We aren’t,” Rita says, turned back to the binder on her bookshelf and paging through it. “I’m meeting with him tomorrow to discuss finding another author or not writing his book if he won’t shut up and listen. Either way, you’ll be free.”</p><p>The man scowls and takes a sip from a large coffee. His three-piece suit is a charcoal gray, tailored perfectly to his form, and accented with a dark fuschia tie and a light pink dress shirt. The burgundy pocket square in his jacket ties the ensemble together. He smells like expensive coffee, probably the kind that has to be imported and takes six weeks to show up. The dark beard and dips of gray in his hair should speak of something more, maybe rugged from experience, but it only confuses Sonny. He has no idea what to think of this man. “And what, the suggestion of us dropping him is supposed to scare him? I doubt anything scares that man.”</p><p>“I agree. Either way, it’s not your problem.” Rita gestures to Amanda, who greets him and shakes his hand, and Sonny. He stands from the chair, hoping he doesn’t come off as eager or impatient from how quickly he moves. “Rafael Barba, this is Amanda Rollins and Sonny Carisi, a possible new client.”</p><p>Rafael examines him, up and down and up again, and offers the hand not holding his coffee. If Rita was trying to break his hand, Rafael wants to move on from the contact as quickly as possible. “Right, the baseball player. Have you made a decision?”</p><p>“Not yet,” Sonny says, glancing at the piercing stare Amanda shoots him and the intrigued patience of Rita’s. “I thought I was going to do it myself, since it would be mine—”</p><p>“That’s not necessary,” Rafael cuts him off. “As a high-profile athlete, you cannot afford the time to write a book yourself, so I will do it for you.”</p><p>Sonny tries to stop himself from laughing but fails, and he smirks at the other man. “I don’t think I’m close to being high-profile.”</p><p>“No? Then why else would we ask you here? And,” Rafael throws a glance over Sonny’s shoulder to Amanda, “I bet you’ve gotten more demands for interviews, with your big announcement. So, please, walk out those doors and find the time to write, because you won’t, and we won’t be around to help you when you can’t.” Rafael takes one last look at Rita, nodding at Amanda. “Let me know when he’s made up his mind. I’ll be in my office.” And with fast steps and a swivel of his hips, he leaves.</p><p>Rita lets out a long sigh and waves for them to take their seats again. “For the record, he’s not always like that. He had the rather unfortunate duty of meeting with a client who has been less than helpful for us, so he’s not in the best of moods. And I know that doesn’t excuse his behavior, but a disclaimer is needed nonetheless.”</p><p>“A warning would have been better,” Sonny huffs. Amanda slaps his arm and shoots him a hard glower. There was his warning to behave.</p><p>“Maybe. You can never tell with him.” Rita leans forward after a brief moment of silence. “Do you know who Tom Clancy is?”</p><p>“Sure, he’s a writer.”</p><p>“In the 2000s, his demand for books was greater than his ability to write, so his publicist hired ghostwriters to write the books for him. The same thing for the Nancy Drew series—ghostwriters used one name to publish stories under but there were multiple writers using a guide to write the books. For some people, wanting to author a book and doing the writing is not always possible. That’s why, when we heard from one of our writers that a major-league baseball pitcher was interested in writing an autobiography, I reached out to Amanda.” Rita offers a comforting smile, her eyes sincere and genuine. “Our job is to help you do the writing.”</p><p>Only a bit of the anxiety eases off his shoulders, but Sonny feels somewhat safer talking to her. It doesn’t sound like Rita wants to take away his story, something he so desperately wants to be heard and published. “What about credit? I don’t feel good about taking the credit if I’m not gonna be the one writing it.”</p><p>“If you want, we can arrange to have both your names on the cover. We’ve worked with similar cases. Whatever you want, we can do our best to deliver it or the equivalent to you.” Rita hands him a business card from the holder on her desk. One side has her contact information on it; the other has Rafael’s. “I want you to make this decision in good faith before we sign anything. You can contact me when you do and we’ll go from there. And, no,” she chuckles when his expression dips just enough into concern, “the offer won’t leave when you go out the door. I like you two, and I want to work with you. But I’m not going to make that decision for you.”</p><p>Rita walks them out and assures Sonny once more of his decision to leave and think on it. He’s thankful Amanda doesn’t bite his head off, let alone bring up, his inability to confirm an arrangement. Maybe his conscience will spare him the same and finally let him make up his mind.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Third Inning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's chapter 3, you know what that means: Barisi is here</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>T3</p><p> </p><p>Sonny calls to confirm the contract with Cunei Books two days later. They discuss and sign the contract the following day, and Rafael Barba is Sonny Carisi’s official ghostwriter. Rafael will shadow him to get a feel for his style of talking and writing, as well as who he is, in order to develop his voice to paper. Thanks to Sonny’s guilt, Rafael would be credited, ideally on the front cover with “as told to” before his name. And after long deliberation and thoroughly confirming it with Sonny, they sign the contract, Sonny’s purposely neat signature beside the hurried scrawl of Rafael’s.</p><p>Sonny hates that Rafael Barba was right about the amount of attention he would be receiving. Every interview he had after leaving Cunei Books ended with the memoir he was working on and the interviewers trying to pry whatever they could to find out what he was including in it. His days were crammed with activity and hardly any room to breathe, let alone take some time to write about his life. Perhaps a ghostwriter would end up being helpful.</p><p>There was only one way to find out. And that included having ghostwriter Rafael Barba stand in the middle of his apartment on a Tuesday and examine every piece of furniture he can find, including the seating in the wide living room that blends into the kitchen and the island that separates the two areas.</p><p>Sonny hands him the coffee he had made—without realizing he had grabbed a Fordham Law mug he had gotten for Christmas years ago—and hops on the balls of his feet when Rafael takes a sip. Sonny’s host mode is on overdrive, not wanting to disappoint a guest—especially a guest who will have a plethora of personal information on him—but especially not wanting to give off the wrong message. The second he signed that contract, his life was open and available to a stranger.</p><p>“Your taste in coffee is good,” Rafael muses softly, taking another small sip from the steaming mug.</p><p>“Thanks,” Sonny grins, nervous but thankful for the topic of conversation. He could talk about coffee and avoid the obvious reason for having the writer in his apartment. “Gift from my nonna. She always sends me presents for opening weekends and season closers.”</p><p>Rafael nods, his eyes on the cup and the intricate maroon seal adorned on it. He isn’t dressed in a suit today, but the navy blue sweater and checkered shirt underneath are worn like one. The color suits him, though if the two previous outfits Sonny had seen him in were anything to go by, he could wear any color without a problem. “So you are Italian.”</p><p>“Yeah, both sides. Northern, thankfully. I don’t have anything against the southern Italians, but,” he chuckles and raises his hands in defense, “Sicilians are another type of Italian.”</p><p>The corners of Rafael’s mouth twitch in amusement but don’t curve up any further. “Bad experiences I assume?”</p><p>“I dated two in high school, one right after the other. I don’t think I’ve ever made a worse decision in my dating life.”</p><p>Rafael scoffs, though lacking a bit for a genuine reaction, but doesn’t comment further. Sonny almost asks about his history but stops himself. They were here for work, after all. Any more distractions and Sonny would be avoiding their purpose for meeting altogether.</p><p>Sonny waves for Rafael to sit in the armchair, definitely his nicer piece of furniture, while he takes the sofa. At this angle, they can face each other at eye-level and Rafael can take any notes easily. “So, ah, how do we start this whole, y’know,” Sonny waves in the air, searching for the word, “process?”</p><p>Rafael sets his mug down on the coffee table—under a coaster Sonny offers with a hurried scramble—and pulls out a notepad and pen from the bag he had brought with him. “I’d like to start by getting to know you first. Understanding your history, knowing your background, seeing where you came from. I can’t write for you if I don’t know you.”</p><p>“So,” Sonny looks away when his cheeks start burning, “you want my life story?”</p><p>“In not so many words, yes. As brief of a synopsis as you can. I can learn more details later.” Rafael clicks his pen and starts writing at the top of the page. “Show me why you want me to write you.”</p><p>It was an interesting request, one that Sonny wasn’t sure how to deliver, but if that’s what he wanted, Sonny would follow through with it. He leans back against the couch and lets out a sigh. “Well, I was born on February 29th—”</p><p>“You want me to see the video too?” Rafael barely looks up at him as he starts to scrawl something across the top of the page. “I don’t need information that’s available to the public.”</p><p>Sonny frowns at the snippy comment. He just about refrains himself from crossing his arms and pouting like a disgruntled teenager. “You said you wanted my life story. Do you want me to pull up my Wikipedia page so you can see what you don’t need?”</p><p>Rafael rolls his eyes. “I read the article that was released after you announced your retirement. I should be fine.”</p><p>Living with three sisters with loud personalities helped him build a tough set of armor to certain attitudes. Someone else may be affected by sharp words and the snarky energy radiating off of the writer, but Sonny knew how to respond with it. And part of that response meant dealing it back just as hard. “Fine,” Sonny sighs, clenching his knees and wracking his brain. He didn’t read the article, but he could take a few guesses on what was included and what wasn’t. “I’m the third kid of four and surrounded by sisters. My younger sister, Bella, was born a few years after me, and I have this vague memory of meeting her in the hospital. That’s probably the earliest I can remember going by Sonny.”</p><p>“Have you ever used ‘Dominick’?” Rafael asks. He barely looks up from his notetaking. Sonny can’t see what he’s writing but the pen moves fast across the page.</p><p>“I mean, aside from legal uses, not really. And that excludes getting in trouble with my mom.” He laughs at his own joke; Rafael doesn’t acknowledge it. Sonny clears his throat to hide the uncomfortable shift in the air. “Uh, but I was always looked at as the baby because I was the only boy. All three of my sisters are just…loud and fierce and opinionated. And I guess ‘Sonny’ just enforced that baby brother persona. The only reason why my name is ‘Dominick’ is because of tradition anyway.” He pauses to let Rafael catch up or to see where he wants him to go next. This feels all too much like an interview where he’s the one asking and answering the questions. Maybe he should talk like he’s chatting with someone he’s just met instead of someone who’s going to be recording every detail about him.</p><p>Rafael waves him to continue, and Sonny perks up at the encouragement. “Ah, I grew up on Staten Island—we lived on the south shore when I was born, but we had to move when my younger sister was born and my dad got a new job in Manhattan. So we moved to Mid Island to be closer to the city.”</p><p>Rafael’s lips quirk up in a smirk. “In Sunnyside?”</p><p>Sonny blinks for a moment in confusion before realization hits him that Rafael is referring to his name. He laughs at that and bows his head. “No, but we weren’t far from it. We were closer to CUNY Staten Island. We lived in this ranch-style house that had a big backyard and we used to see if we could throw baseballs from our backyard and try to catch it from our neighbors’ yards.”</p><p>“How long have you played baseball?” Rafael asks.</p><p>“I mean, I started playing when I was in, like, middle school, but I didn’t see it as something I would do for my career. I stopped doing it for two years and I didn’t come back to it until my sophomore year of high school.”</p><p>“Why’s that?”</p><p>Sonny pauses; they can get to a point where he’s comfortable revealing the intense fear he felt as a kid, wanting to do good and always being told that it’s never enough by kids that were bigger than him. He wants to discuss the struggle he faced being a good Catholic boy who wanted to kiss people who shared his gender identity as much as he did with people who didn’t share it. But Rafael is a stranger, contract be damned, and there are some things he can wait to share. “Can I get back to you on that?”</p><p>Rafael raises his head, mute curiosity flashing in his eyes but staying unsaid. “That’s your choice. We don’t have to talk about it now.”</p><p>“I want to wait a bit. It’s, y’know…” Sonny waves his hand in the air to try and find the right word, but his mind blanks. Maybe he should talk about it now, just rip off the band-aid and put everything out in the open. “It’s personal.”</p><p>“This whole thing will be personal.” Rafael offers a sympathetic smile. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”</p><p>“This is different.”</p><p>“Mm.” Rafael looks down before he reaches for his coffee and nods to the kitchen. “I think I may take your offer for a snack.”</p><p>“Oh, sure!” Sonny hops to his feet, thankful for the distraction, whether Rafael was aware of it or not. “What’ll it be? We got potato chips, tortilla chips, some dip—”</p><p>“Do you have pretzels?”</p><p>Sonny looks through his cabinets and frowns. “I have trail mix.”</p><p>Rafael sighs, disappointment weighing the sound down, and Sonny catches his resolved nod. “Those aren’t close, but I’ll take it.”</p><p>He grabs the bag and pours some in a clear bowl, making a mental note to buy some pretzels for their next session. His intense urge to please everyone is already kicking into overdrive to satisfy every whim Rafael thinks of.</p><p>They continue for two more hours, Sonny staying on the familiar topic of baseball and Rafael filling both sides of multiple pages that he tears from his notepad. Apparently, some of his career history was detailed in the article, and Rafael shoves his phone across the coffee table so he can show him what he’s referring to and to talk about the lesser-known aspects of being a baseball player. Sonny would have thought that a first-hand account was better than a second, and when he brought that up, he was presented with a pleased smile and a small nod in acknowledgement from the writer. Maybe he had done all that on purpose to see what Sonny would do about it. Sonny tested the theory by veering towards points the article had brought up—his college career and his relationship with Mike Dodds, to be specific—but Rafael simply continued writing and didn’t acknowledge it further.</p><p>Aside from that moment, though, it was surprisingly pleasant. Rafael’s notes kept up with his speech and Sonny enjoyed the trip down memory lane that he took with each retelling. It feels surreal to know that he isn’t going to have training days anymore, counting the days until opening weekend or choking on the smell of sweat and dirt in the dugout while he gnawed on bubblegum that depleted his taste buds for weeks on end. Sonny wants to take it back, maybe pull a Brett Favre and come out of retirement for one last victory lap, but the satisfaction of playing baseball wouldn’t last long. Not when there are bigger things that he wants the world to know about him. And if Rafael Barba is the person helping him get the word out, he’ll take whatever chance he can get.</p><p> </p><p>B3</p><p> </p><p>They meet up throughout the course of two weeks. For the most part, Sonny hosts Rafael to a cup (or three) of fresh coffee and a handful (or five) of trail mix (“you still don’t have pretzels?” “I keep forgetting to grab them”). During that time, Rafael shadows Sonny to a number of things, including two interviews, a podcast, and the four scheduled lunches he has with Amanda. He barely comments during it, assuring Sonny before they left his apartment that he was there to observe him for now. Rafael had been satisfied with the info he had gathered during their first couple of chats and wanted to see more before he asked anything else.</p><p>Sonny cooks dinner for them one night, more to align with his routine but also to give Rafael more material. There were plenty of sides to him the writer had witnessed, but his culinary skills were not yet part of it. Sonny offered to make anything and Rafael proposed tacos: something easy that wouldn’t require a lot of cleaning up and was easily customizable. It sounded perfect to Sonny, and he quickly got to organizing their toppings, bringing up an easy tortilla recipe—he had always wanted to try and it wasn’t hard to make—and digging through his collection of recipes for his homemade salsa.</p><p>“When you said you were making everything from scratch,” Rafael bemuses when he arrives, sneaking a peek at the finely-chopped lettuce, “I didn’t think you meant <em> everything</em>.”</p><p>Sonny only laughs and resumes chopping. “Everything but cheese and sour cream. I don’t have the right tools for those.”</p><p>“Even your apartment is too small for that.” Rafael steals a peek at the tortillas sitting on a platter beside a bowl of shredded cheese, but Sonny swiftly steps into his line of view and distracts him with a glass of scotch. Rafael’s eyes light up at the bribe but he takes it nonetheless. “I didn’t know you’d be surprising me tonight.”</p><p>“It’s not so much a surprise as it is me trying to keep you out of the kitchen.” Sonny laughs sheepishly when Rafael gives him a curious glance over the rim of his glass. “I can get possessive of my space.”</p><p>“I understand.” He doesn’t react to the taste—which could be very good or very bad, depending on the mood—and sets his pad and pen on the dining table. “We’ll get started after dinner then.”</p><p>The homemade tortillas are delicious, and Sonny enjoys every second of the tacos, especially the slightest dash of heat added to his salsa. And if the near-silence they eat in and the clean plate beside his is anything to go by, Rafael enjoyed it just as much. He says as much when Sonny asks, even offering a smile for confirmation. The spark in green eyes does not go unnoticed.</p><p>“Where did you learn to cook?” Rafael wonders.</p><p>“Family, mostly,” Sonny says, finishing off the last of his beer. He silently asks Rafael for a refill of his drink but the offer is declined. “My mom wanted to teach at least one of her kids, and my older sisters were never interested, so she passed a lot of recipes down to me and Bella.”</p><p>Rafael leans forward. “Just Italian?”</p><p>“Sorta. She didn’t want us to rely on her knowledge so she encouraged us to make our own recipes. She did teach us how to make a mean paella though.”</p><p>“That can be for next time.” Their meetups are becoming a regular thing, something that Sonny anticipates outside of them and something he cherishes every moment of while it’s occurring. Even if it’s scheduled in advance, Sonny can’t help the burst of excitement at getting to see Rafael again. He’s eased up the snarky persona a bit when they aren’t working, and Sonny has discovered a much more pleasant side to him. Rafael can say at least two sentences without a bitter tone; he loves to snack on something while he’s working; because of his hurried note-taking, which Sonny has discovered is all short-hand with abbreviations and removed vowels, there’s always an ink blotch somewhere on him. His temporary shadow has become easier to talk to, and where he was once cautious in showing his life in full detail, he knows Rafael is only asking for work purposes. Everything they talk about, everything he says, will be kept between them and transferred appropriately into a readable format.</p><p>Sonny grins when he remembers that “next time” will be on Sunday; he makes a mental note to pull out his sauce recipe for later. “I dunno, I got a chicken parm dish I’ve been itching to try again.”</p><p>Rafael snorts quietly in an almost-chuckle. “How stereotypical. Next thing you’ll tell me is that dessert is cannoli made fresh today.”</p><p>“Nah, I had to get those from the bakery.” He winks at Rafael’s scoff and eyeroll. With the informal air between them, he has the sudden urge to spew at least a few of the warbling thoughts going on inside his head. Not everything he had kept away since their sessions started, but some thoughts sit on the tip of his tongue, comfortable with being shared for now. Sonny shifts in his chair to prop his elbow on the back of it. “Can I ask you something?”</p><p>Rafael’s head tilts slightly to the side, a mute question to match the motion. “About?”</p><p>Sonny shrugs. “I dunno. Expectations that others have about you?”</p><p>“Do you need me to take notes?” Rafael is already reaching for his notepad and pen, plate pushed aside, before Sonny can reply, shaking his head and reaching forward.</p><p>“No, no, it’s nothing like that.”</p><p>“It could be.”</p><p>“I might not want it to be. I just wanna spout some nonsense.” Sonny looks deep into Rafael’s eyes and hopes he can see how desperately he wants to be heard, not with distractions from a pen and paper but with dedication and his sole attention. Sonny doesn’t need to rant to a colleague. He simply needs someone to hear what he’s saying.</p><p>Rafael, although hesitant—for what, anyone could guess—nods and leans back in his chair. He can fit that role for Sonny when requested, even if it takes a bit to enforce. “Alright. You have my attention.”</p><p>Sonny nods, the fear bubbling in his throat for a few seconds before he swallows and sits up. “Did you ever feel like you had everyone’s expectations of you sitting on your shoulders and you didn’t know whether you were the one who put them there or your family did?”</p><p>Rafael takes a deep breath, eyes flashing. “If you’re asking me as a person instead of a writer, I’d rather not answer. We aren’t here to discuss me.”</p><p>“I get that—consider it a rhetorical question then. I always wondered what my family wanted from me—to be a good son or a perfect son, to be successful or to be happy. I still don’t know, not really at least. But I always knew they would support me. And when I said I was going pro, they were…as surprised as I had been. Baseball was…” Sonny sighs, drags his hand through his hair, squeezes a bit when he combs to the end. “It had always been a hobby for me, y’know? I just got good enough at it to be a professional. And even then, I don’t consider myself a pro baseball player.”</p><p>“What do you consider yourself?” Rafael asks.</p><p>Sonny looks at the table, all the deep lines set into the surface of the wood, that one scrape from a slip of a knife after a sibling get-together got a little too rowdy, the off-center centerpiece in the almost middle of the table. That same question had crossed his mind for years; he had the answers, but he had never had the opportunity to say them out loud. “A home chef. A lawyer. A queer man.” If Rafael has a comment on that, he doesn’t show it, just listens and keeps his expression neutral. “Especially a lawyer.”</p><p>“You graduated from law school, and you passed the bar, but you didn’t become a lawyer. How come?”</p><p>“Honestly, at that point, baseball was the one thing I knew I was good at. I can understand it—just throw the ball a certain way and defend the field if your pitch gets hit. How was I supposed to know I would be a good lawyer? Or better yet, how was I supposed to know what kind of lawyer I wanted to be? No kid at that age knows what they want. They’re just looking for the best way to minimize their loan debt.”</p><p>Rafael’s smile is sad, almost pitying. “And what would have happened if you failed baseball? Not everyone who gets drafted—in <em> any </em> sport—has what it takes to make it big or keep their momentum going.”</p><p>Sonny chuckles to himself. “I guess I would have answered those questions a long time ago.”</p><p>Later that night, when Rafael forces Sonny to let him help with the dishes, the topic returns to what Sonny said, in his own direction, about being queer. He doesn’t step down from it and he silently dares Rafael to challenge him about it. Even if it was easier to be openly queer nowadays, men were still scrutinized with their identities, especially when they fell under the umbrella of bisexuality. Rafael assured him he would not be outed unless he gave permission—and, in not so many words, shared a knowing look that was relieved to find another like him.</p><p>Their conversations stray from anything deep and maintain an easy aura between them: just friendly chatter with some equally amicable banter. Sonny is thankful that Rafael picked up his story. Surely no one else would have gotten to him so deeply.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Fourth Inning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A few notes to keep in mind:<br/>-a cutter is a fastball pitch that breaks away from the pitcher when it gets to home plate; here's a gif to <a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/6a/Cut_Fastball.gif/400px-Cut_Fastball.gif">show it in action</a><br/>-a curveball is a pitch that makes a dive as it approaches home plate; here's a gif to <a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/9e/12-6_Curveball.gif/400px-12-6_Curveball.gif">show a 12-6 pitch in action</a><br/>-a pinch hitter is a player who comes into play at any time when the ball is not in action; the PH is someone who hasn't been in the game yet and can either hit or run for another player<br/>-Tom Brady was the quarterback for the New England Patriots and is now the quarterback for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers; aside from cheating in games, being a sore loser, and a friend of the current "leader" in the US, Tom Brady broke up with Bridget Moynaham (who is currently Erin Reagan in Blue Bloods and one of two good things about the show) around the time that she would have been pregnant with their son and dated his now-wife Gisele. I'm not saying he dumped Bridget for a younger model at the announcement of Bridget's pregnancy buuuuut I'm just saying. I'm also saying the Giants beat the Patriots in the Super Bowl *twice* so that's that<br/>-Jacob deGrom is a pitcher for the Mets and I love him<br/>-hits in a baseball game = times you hit the ball and make it to base; runs in a baseball game = times you score in a game<br/>-Mets are in the National League, which still uses the rule that pitchers must bat, rather than use a designated hitter to bat for them, like the American League, minor leagues, and college baseball. It's a very tense topic in the baseball world<br/>-the batter's box is where the batter stands at home plate; they can hit on either the left or the right side of the pitcher<br/>-baseball is extremely superstitious and the smallest things, like walking over the foul lines or not stepping on the bases between innings, is EXTREMELY contentious; Nick has a ritual, like most batters, when he's up to bat, and Sonny always crosses himself before he starts to pitch like the good Catholic boy that he is</p><p>Okay if I go on any longer about baseball, this tab is going to be as long as the fic itself, which has a lot of great Barisi moments I promise!!! So enjoy!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>T4</p><p> </p><p>Rafael flinches at the pitch that lands in the glove on his left hand and stands back up from his squatting position. “My knees already hurt from this, can you not make my hands hurt too?”</p><p>Sonny laughs and catches the ball. He had brought Rafael to a baseball field in a Brooklyn park for the day, something fun they could do while working on more details of the book. Apparently, after two and a half months of regular visits and a blossoming friendship, Rafael was nearly ready to start writing the actual book. They had gotten to a point of friendly comradery, and one of the best ways to learn about Sonny in order to write his voice accurately was through watching his interactions with others. Nick and Mike would be joining them on the field, and Sonny would be taking Rafael to meet his family on Sunday for some familial experience.</p><p>“Y’know, Mike and I have this theory that catchers are the first to retire because of how much strain their body endures,” Sonny says.</p><p>“Fascinating,” Rafael grumbles. He crouches back over home plate, with a dramatic groan to boot, and catches Sonny’s cutter in his glove. His response to Sonny’s enthusiastic grin is a scoff and a toss back. “I can see why they would be. Do you only have two pitches?”</p><p>“No, I can throw others. I just have ones that I’m better with.” Sonny rolls his shoulder, gets into position, and pitches a curveball. Rafael just barely catches it, his legs squeezing together and the ball getting stopped between his thighs. “See, that would have been a ball in a game. My curveballs without any sauce are hit or miss.”</p><p>Rafael throws the ball back. “Aren’t curveballs supposed to trick the batter into swinging instead of falling into the strike zone?”</p><p>Sonny smirks at that. “I thought you didn’t know anything about baseball. Isn’t that what you told me?” They had had a brief conversation about it—Rafael knew the basics after growing up a Yankees fan but he didn’t keep up with sports as much nowadays—and Sonny refreshed him on a few pointers. It’s interesting to hear jargon like that coming from someone who, just last week, was trying to use “pinch hitter” correctly in a sentence.</p><p>Even from the catcher’s mask over his face, the narrow of Rafael’s eyes into a warning glower is loud and clear. Sonny laughs and pitches a fastball right into the center of the glove. Rafael falters a bit but catches it firmly between his mitt. “Christ,” he breathes out, “I’m starting to understand why athletes retire after a certain age.”</p><p>“Oh come on,” Sonny tries to stifle his laughter, “we haven’t been playing for that long.”</p><p>“My body doesn’t move like this,” Rafael waves to his legs, folded and squatted over home plate, “even when I was younger.”</p><p>“You’re nearly ten years older than me, your argument doesn’t mean shit. Besides, have you seen Tom Brady?”</p><p>“No, because I respect women, especially when they’re pregnant with my child and I dump them for a younger model.”</p><p>Sonny laughs and turns to the back of the mound to grab the rosin bag from the dirt. “Touché.” After a few more throws that turn into Sonny teaching Rafael the different pitches and the purpose they could serve based on the batters a pitcher faces, they take a brief water break. Rafael suggests switching positions so he could learn how to throw a pitch or two and is already working on removing his chest plate when Sonny agrees. They’re chatting amicably when they catch two figures walking towards them, one holding a bag of sandwiches and the other carrying a bag of equipment. Sonny grins and waves to them; the broader of the two calls out his own greeting and the shorter waves as they approach. “About time we had some company.”</p><p>“Good,” Rafael snorts, removing the catcher’s mask and fixing the front of his hair. “Maybe being around more than one person will make you tolerable.”</p><p>Sonny elbows him and hops up from the bench. “What, you didn’t have a good time with me?”</p><p>“Ask the blisters on my thumb that I earned trying to catch the bullets you fired at me.”</p><p>When they’re close enough, Nick gently places the bag of equipment on the ground and dashes around the wire defender separating the dugout from the field to pull Sonny into a tight hug and a clap on the back. Sonny laughs into the gesture and returns with equal gusto. He hasn’t seen Nick in a few weeks, at least since his retirement was announced, but he’s already itching to put his glove back on and pitch to him.</p><p>“Welcome to the retired club,” Nick teases as they pull back, reaching up to tug Sonny’s Mets hat off and replace it with a Yankees cap. Sonny shouts at the switch and rips off the offending hat. Nick cackles and goes to grab the bag of equipment he had dropped off.</p><p>Mike, on the other hand, sets his things down properly before he greets Sonny; they had had lunch recently, and Sonny still found a wave of sadness rising up when he and Mike had to part. They understood each other so well, and so deeply, there was little Sonny could compare it to.</p><p>“I know I only saw you a few days ago,” Mike says, “but it’s good to see you again.”</p><p>“Same here,” Sonny beams. </p><p>They get introductions out of the way—Mike teasing Sonny as he shakes Rafael’s hand, and Nick bonding with him over their Cuban backgrounds and growing up in “<em>el barrio</em>”—before they dole out lunches and sit on the bench. Nick and Rafael have a brief conversation in Spanish that sounds noticeably different from each other: Nick’s dialect has a more organized way in his pronunciation as if he learned how to speak the language from a tutor or teacher, while Rafael’s speech is rougher and a bit quicker, laced with sharp edges as if he grew up with Spanish the same way he grew up with English. It’s almost enchanting to hear them talk and to watch them interact. Rafael had been cautious to meet the people who made a personal impact in Sonny’s life, always enforcing a professional persona, so seeing him get along with his former teammate and his former rival is certainly refreshing for both of them.</p><p>It might help that Mike and Nick are familiar with Rafael’s work and he doesn’t mind answering their questions. If anything, he invites them; Sonny is just thankful they manage to not ask questions about the writing itself. There are finer details he would rather prepare to tell anyone before revealing anything.</p><p>After lunch, Mike and Sonny toss the ball to one another while Nick walks Rafael through batting stances and different entrances to the batter’s box aligned with players’ superstitions. Because the Mets’ season was over and the semifinals to the World Series was approaching, Rafael requested a private lesson of sorts to learn about the game of baseball. He claimed it would help him better understand Sonny’s love for it and voice it in the book if he played it himself. Sonny was more than happy to play baseball, and Nick and Mike were just as eager to help out.</p><p>“Your shoulder alright?” Sonny asks, tossing the ball back a bit lighter. Mike had volunteered as the catcher for the afternoon, considering the strain his throwing arm had endured over the years, and was happy to adjust the catcher’s gear and slide it on.</p><p>Mike rolls his right shoulder and tosses the ball back. It isn’t a strong throw by any means, and there’s a bit of a heavy strain when it leaves his fingers, but it’s better than the first year after his surgery. The pinch on the bridge of his nose and the sharp gasps under his breath weren’t something that easily went away, but he doesn’t seem to have a physical reaction to throwing a baseball at least. “Feels good. If I have any strain, I’ll let you know.”</p><p>“You better.” Sonny points his glove at him. “I don’t want another hospital trip.”</p><p>Mike rolls his eyes at that. “What, because I pitched a ball a little too hard on Fourth of July weekend and ended up spraining my knee? My arm didn’t even hurt then.”</p><p>“I’m just checking.”</p><p>“Thanks, Dad.” Mike grins when Sonny laughs; he’ll surely tell his father later about this moment.</p><p>“You two ready?” Nick asks, standing at the edge of the batter’s box and rolling his shoulders. According to the placement of his helmet, the rim facing up more than it should, he’s just started his at-bat ritual.</p><p>“Are <em> you </em> ready?” Sonny teases as he and Mike head over. “When was the last time you hit?”</p><p>“Hey, Zara needs the practice. She pitches better than deGrom.”</p><p>Mike scuffs dirt on his shoes as he passes, narrowly avoiding Nick’s offended kick back. Rafael stands by the pitcher’s mound, watching the two and greeting Sonny when he stands beside him. “Did you learn anything or was it all Yankee nonsense?” Sonny asks him.</p><p>Rafael smirks. “I was able to decipher a few things, don’t worry.” He eyes Nick when he returns to the box and slides his helmet down until it’s completely covered his eyes. He takes two practice swings in succession before adjusting the helmet properly and stepping into the box with his left foot first. “But I’m still a bit lost at the rituals.”</p><p>Sonny chuckles and leans in so he can point and follow Nick’s movement as he narrates it. “Watch this, he’s gonna check his gloves, turn his right hand over, make a fist, uncurl, swing again—” Rafael snorts as each action is accompanied by a comment. Nick is too focused, moving through the motion like he never retired, to pay attention. “Tap home base twice, turn the bat over so the side that touched home is facing up, and now he’s ready.” There’s little space between them now, but Sonny stands back again and focuses on the signal Mike is giving him between crouched legs: an easy curveball to see what Nick wants to hit. “Baseball players are the most superstitious people out there. We all have our rituals.”</p><p>“What’s yours?” Rafael wonders. Sonny turns to centerfield and stands at the edge of the mound, crouches down, and makes the Sign of the Cross. He rises and turns back around to Rafael’s quiet chuckles and the bright amusement that dwells in his eyes. “Dedicated, even outside of a game.”</p><p>“What else do you expect from a good Catholic boy right off the Staten Island ferry?”</p><p>Mike raises his mitt; Nick puts his bat up and eyes Sonny, hands still and bat unwavering behind him; Sonny steps into position and shifts his fingers around the baseball. Even though they’re playing a casual game that would never be considered a game in the first place and are solely there for Rafael’s observation and research, when Sonny looks back at home plate, he can hear the home crowd around him and smell the dirt and sweat that lingers around him. The lights of Citi Field are high above him, enhancing the blue and orange seas around him, and the New York summer is musty in the air. If he closes his eyes, he might actually be transported to the last Subway Series the three of them shared. Nick had read everything Mike and Sonny had pitched him, and he had two hits for his four at-bats. (And even though the Yankees won the series that year, it was the best the pitching duo had done in the rivalry: together, they kept the score to a low 6-5 and only allowed a combined 8 hits.)</p><p>“Wanna play a game?” Sonny asks.</p><p>“I think we already are,” Rafael muses, his tone wary, “but sure.”</p><p>“When I throw the pitch, you tell me what it is, okay?”</p><p>“I can try.”</p><p>Without warning, Sonny rears back and throws the pitch. Nick hits it but it pops straight up into the air. Mike catches it and tosses it back to Sonny. The ball back in his grip, he looks over at Rafael for a response, but he looks awestruck, suddenly thrown into silence and unable to voice his thoughts. Sonny gathers his attention with a laugh and wave. “You alright?”</p><p>Rafael blinks rapidly and nods. “I’ll take back what I said, though. There’s no way I’m calling your pitches.”</p><p>“Do you have any requests?”</p><p>“Throw a strike!” Mike hollers. Nick shushes him as he steps back into the batter’s box.</p><p>Rafael shrugs when Sonny looks expectantly at him. “I don’t have anything to add,” he states. “Throw a strike.”</p><p>“I thought we had something, <em> compay</em>,” Nick says from home plate, falling silent when Sonny gets into position. It only takes two seconds before the fastball soars through the air and into Mike’s glove. Nick never got a chance to swing, but he accepts the strike and backs up to adjust his gloves.</p><p>“How do you do this?” Rafael asks. “It’s a small ball that soars through the air at over eighty miles an hour and you have to <em> hit </em> it? I’d give up at that point.”</p><p>Sonny hums and catches the ball Mike returns. “Pitchers in our league are required to bat, but I’m pretty safe as a reliever.”</p><p>“If that’s what you call it.”</p><p>This time, when Sonny throws the ball, Nick hits it and sends it soaring. It lands in what would have been left field, a solid double in a game, and Nick takes the victory run to second base. Mike and Sonny are less than impressed by the performance.</p><p>“C’mon, Rafael,” Nick encourages, “bring me home.”</p><p>Rafael stifles a laugh behind his hand and shakes his head. “No, I’d fuck it all up. Someone would wind up getting hurt.”</p><p>“We have the right gear on,” Mike points out, gesturing to their helmets and the catcher gear he wears. “We’re professionals at this.”</p><p>“You’re gonna tell me you haven’t thought of it?” Sonny prods. He steps forward to get Rafael to look up at him. “All the times I’ve annoyed the hell out of you, and you’ve never wanted to get out that anger?”</p><p>Sonny shouldn’t be offended at how quickly that gets Rafael to home plate, but he’s happy for the addition nonetheless. Even if he feels more pressure than ever to not hit the batter, he knows what pitch he’ll be giving him. He sees it as a hitter he’s never faced before in similar situations—keep the batter home and stop the runner on base from scoring.</p><p>Rafael finds a helmet and bat from the bag Nick had brought, testing the weight of the bat in his hands before he walks up to home base. Mike gives him a few pointers into standing correctly and directs him into position. It’s almost endearing how Rafael shuffles into place, to the left of the base, unable to find the right position despite his intense listening. Sonny slides off his glove and tosses it gently on the mound. “You need some help?”</p><p>“I can figure it out,” Rafael says. He glances up at Sonny when he starts to walk over, and the barest hint of a smile appears. “I thought you were safe from hitting, bat boy.”</p><p>Sonny rolls his eyes at the nickname and nods to the batter’s box. “Can I step inside?”</p><p>He can only read the lower half of Rafael’s expression under the blue rim of the helmet: a coarse swallow and a curt nod. “Sure.”</p><p>Sonny feels hot all over as he steps next to Rafael and directs his wrist upward with a soft grip around it. Rafael is warm beneath his fingers, either a combination of the exertion from their active afternoon or his natural body temperature—but Sonny internally scolds himself for thinking about it and focuses on the bat. Rafael’s hands should be level with his chest, right under his neck and aligned with his clavicle.</p><p>“You’re batting right-handed?” When Rafael nods, Sonny zeroes in on his hands to stop himself from focusing on how close they are. And Rafael stepping towards him is definitely not doing him any favors. Sonny wraps his arms around Rafael, practically caging him in, and guides his hands down to reset him at the bottom of the bat. “Hold it like this.” He pushes Rafael’s right hand up into a proper position, the jerking phallic motion not lost on him—or Rafael, if the audible swallow and tightened grip around the bag is anything to judge. “And keep your left hand under it.”</p><p>Sonny gently takes Rafael’s left wrist and puts his hand under his right. Rafael’s knuckles turn white from how hard he clenches the bat. He almost forgets where they are, let alone who they’re with, but Sonny grounds himself when Mike clears his throat. There’s a loss of heat between them as Sonny steps away, and it suddenly sears across his front and buzzes at the back of his neck. He walks back to the mound with his head down and tugs his mitt back on. He isn’t even going to look at the knowing grin Nick eyes him with, or the knowing glance he shares with Mike.</p><p>“Let’s play ball.”</p><p> </p><p>B4</p><p> </p><p>“So Dom and Christine have four children,” Rafael states. Sonny nods as he lists them off; “Teresa, Gina, Sonny, and Bella.”</p><p>“We like names ending with ‘a’,” Sonny smiles.</p><p>“Teresa has Mia and is divorced, and her mentioning it is not an invitation to discuss it. Bella has Margaret and Patti and is married to Tommy. And Gina doesn’t have kids but has had plenty of boyfriends.”</p><p>“Fiancés,” Sonny corrects, “but yeah. She loves the idea of a committed relationship but she still hasn’t gotten the whole ‘staying committed’ part.”</p><p>Rafael lets out a long breath. Although there had been multiple Sunday dinners on Staten Island between now and their first session, this is the first time Rafael has joined him. Sonny is a combination of ecstatic energy for integrating his family into this new phase of his life and concerned expectation for the embarrassment they will cause him. And now that they’re only a few blocks away from his childhood home, Sonny’s nerves are taking over. He’s prepared for the stories his family will surely share and the nicknames or teasing from his sisters, but to expose Rafael to any of their antics is what worries him more.</p><p>All three of them are varying degrees of brash spirits, and all three of them lack a filter. They could cross a line that Sonny has only recently discovered, therefore ruining the progress he’s made in their cemented work and inching personal relationships. Not to mention the conversation he has eluded to but has yet to have involving the deeper feelings about his ghostwriter. Even the most innocent ones of how they’re getting along or how his progress is going, Sonny steers clear of it altogether.</p><p>It isn’t a crush, per se. But ever since the friendly game of baseball they had had with Nick and Mike earlier in the week, Sonny wanted to know what else was warm about Rafael. Or if his hands were always so smooth. Or if he meant anything by the shift he had made in an attempt to get closer to him. Sonny couldn’t figure it out, but he was starting to like it that way. It removed any other need for an explanation, and the possibility of rejection was one less worry for him. No matter how strongly he wanted to know.</p><p>Sonny pulls into the driveway of the long ranch-style home he had grown up in, the periwinkle siding faded from age and the large cherry wood standing tall in the front. All three cars are here, meaning they are the last of the siblings to arrive, but hopefully he and Bella can prevent Rafael from getting overwhelmed in his first few minutes standing in the Carisi’s home. Of his family, Bella had always been the most understanding and the most willing to hear perspectives that aren’t hers. Recruiting her to help Rafael adjust to the family wasn’t hard.</p><p>As they get out of the car, Sonny can’t help but look over at Rafael. The other man had opted for a burgundy sweater and a pink button-down underneath, complete with dark slacks and loafers, and sealed with the camel coat draped around him to ward off the crisp October air. A soft breeze pushes against his hair and raises a stray cowlick from the style he had sculpted. Sonny watches it flip up in the air and wonders if his hair feels as tender and luscious as it looks.</p><p>Sonny’s eyes wander down from his hair to his eyes, sharp green that could pierce a hole right through his chest and are staring right at him. He looks away and starts to head for the house when Rafael chuckles under his breath in response.</p><p>“Prepare yourself,” Sonny says, mostly teasing but also hopeful as he knocks on the door and turns the knob. “You’re about to find out why and how I’m so loud.”</p><p>From the entranceway, the kitchen wafers in hot smells and nostalgia, twirling through the air and stifling the house with memories. Sunday dinner takes away from the crowded sound of loud conversation between both adults and kids and the blare of a television from the living room to their left. Sonny used to run upstairs after Mass and change into comfy clothes to help his mother with dinner. The family dog would splay out in the sunlight peering through the kitchen window over the sink and watch them, waiting for a piece of food to fall to her level. The cat that Gina had found in a dumpster behind the 7-Eleven would always jump on the dining room table when they started transferring dishes. The older Carisi siblings, always responsible for setting the table, would have to keep him off. Even after all those years, the smells and tastes have remained the same.</p><p>Bella pokes her head around the corner from the kitchen and beams at them. She sets down whatever she had been holding to rush over to them and pull Sonny into a tight hug. Sonny squeezes tight and laughs when she sways back and forth; they had always been close because of their ages. Bella was only a little bit younger than him, closer than the combined five years or so that Teresa and Gina had.</p><p>“I’ve been waiting for you,” Bella says, her expression switching from joy to severe in a few seconds. “Ma wasn’t resuming the sauce until you showed up.”</p><p>Sonny sighs and sags his shoulders in mock defeat. “Of course she wasn’t. Old habits.”</p><p>Bella rolls her eyes. “Old habits.” When she faces Rafael, coat off and tossed over his arm, it’s with the same amount of glee she had shown Sonny but tamer so as not to startle Rafael. “Hi, I’m Bella, the youngest Carisi! Rafael, right?”</p><p>“I believe there was only one invited,” Rafael offers a smirk and shakes her hand. If the first sign of their plan was their guest offering to interact with his sister, they were doing good. “He’s told me a lot about your adventures.”</p><p>“Oh god,” Bella scoffs, “I knew he couldn’t resist. Our neighborhood tours with our dad’s wheelbarrow are some of my favorite memories with him.” She nudges Sonny’s shoulder and bumps her hip against his; he responds in kind, not missing the fondness in Rafael’s gaze. Sonny and Bella had a strong bond. It would make any new eyewitness soften up.</p><p>Bella’s greeting brings the rest of the family to the foyer but their method of filtering them hopefully eases things. Dom, a gentle giant with a booming laugh much like Sonny’s, prattles on about books he had assigned for a seminar he gave at Wagner College. Teresa’s kind demeanor and sharp intellect balances out Gina’s boisterous greeting and half-lidded eyes. Mia offers a wave and a soft greeting, more occupied with Bella’s daughter Margaret and the blocks she’s building with, and Tommy clamors over to introduce himself, his and Bella’s second child strapped to his chest and gnawing on a teething ring. While Tommy talks to Rafael, Bella keeps Gina and Teresa at bay with verbal quips that contain unsaid warnings. Teresa doesn’t fall for the distraction, catching on and making the move to step aside on her own, but Gina takes the bait and steps closer to Bella in a fighting stance. It was better than overwhelming Rafael to a room full of Italians.</p><p>The last person Rafael meets is Christine Carisi, who is still in the kitchen and folding portioned pieces of ravioli into their proper shape. She jumps when Sonny taps her shoulder but breaks into a grin when she sees him; Sonny always knew which parent he looked most like, no matter how much he may emulate his father.</p><p>“How ya doing, Ma?” Sonny asks, hugging her as tight as she squeezes his waist.</p><p>“My four birds are here,” she coos softly, “what else can a mother ask for?”</p><p>“Maybe an extra mouth to feed?” Sonny steps aside and gestures to Rafael. “Ma, this is my ghostwriter, Rafael Barba. He’s been helping me write my memoir.”</p><p>Christine’s eyes light up the moment she shakes Rafael’s hand. “Oh, ghostwriter!” She eyes Sonny at that but doesn’t explain herself, clasping her hands together and smiling instead. “It’s an honor to finally meet you. Sonny is absolutely elated that he gets to publish a book. It’s all he’s been able to talk about for weeks.”</p><p>Rafael chuckles at that. “I understand the appeal. It’s not every day you tell a stranger every single one of your memories and thoughts.”</p><p>“Unless you’re an extrovert like him.” Christine reaches over to pinch Sonny’s cheek, smearing some flour on his face. “In which case, it’s not that hard to do.”</p><p>Sonny dusts off the flour with the back of his hand as Rafael smiles, just the slightest quirk of his lips, and nods. “He’s so talkative and open. I never knew he was an extrovert.”</p><p>Christine beams at Sonny and points at Rafael; “Oh, I like him. He puts up a good fight.”</p><p>Rafael shrugs, albeit shyly. “I was born for it.”</p><p>“Sonny had to grow into it.” Christine turns back to the kitchen counter and tears into a half-cut loaf of bread, forming a ball of bread in her hands. “You’d think the boys would have more energy, but nope. His sisters were the hyperactive ones.”</p><p>“Alright, Ma,” Sonny chuckles, more from nerves than anything else, “let’s not spread any slander.”</p><p>“I’m not spreading anything but the truth!” Christine hands Rafael a bread ball and leans forward. “All three girls were running before they knew how to walk, but not Sonny. He hated doing anything that wasn’t crawling. Even in his bouncer, you know the one, with the different toys and the wheels to help them walk—there was one time he tried to crawl out from one of the leg holes and got stuck—”</p><p>“Why don’t I take our coats and put them away?” Sonny cuts in, reaching around Rafael to tug on the coat still over his arm. Rafael startles, as if just remembering it was there, but hands it over without so much as a second glance. There was no stopping Christine Carisi when she had words to share.</p><p>Sonny leaves the kitchen to take both his coat and Rafael’s and store them in the closet by the door. He gets as far as grabbing the knob and turning it before a hand pushes against it with a slam.</p><p>“You never said he was your ghostwriter,” Gina snaps. Teresa stands beside her with mild irritation but nothing like the fury that radiates from the second Carisi.</p><p>“I’m pretty sure I did,” Sonny frowns.</p><p>“You said you were bringing a guest, not who he was,” Teresa clarifies. “We thought he was your boyfriend.”</p><p>“My boy—” The thought of having a relationship like that with Rafael momentarily short-circuits Sonny’s brain. He almost wants to doubt that what they’re suggesting is real—because how ridiculous was that? Aside from the fact that it crossed an undisclosed professional boundary, imagining Rafael in a position that was anything but work-related was unsettling at best. He didn’t need Rafael writing to suddenly give him a boner. “No! What gave you that idea?”</p><p>“Have you seen the way you talked about him?” Teresa pulls out her phone to open the messaging app and starts reading; “‘Can I bring a guest over for dinner on Sunday? Rafael is still shadowing me and wants to observe us so he can write about you guys in our book.’”</p><p>Sonny scowls and points to the screen of her phone. “Where the hell is there any suggestion that we’re dating?”</p><p>Gina steps forward, arms crossed in front of her. “It’s been almost three months and he’s still ‘researching’ you? Shouldn’t he already be writing?”</p><p>Sonny ignores the worried lump in his stomach and shrugs. “He’s starting in a few weeks. We had to get everything else out of the way before we focused on my relationships.”</p><p>“So,” Gina drawls, “you’re getting to know each other? Still finding out his likes and dislikes?”</p><p>“Seeing how he presents himself and how it differs from who he really is?” Teresa adds. She rolls her eyes when Sonny glares at them. “What, you think I can’t say anything because my marriage failed? I got a divorce, Sonny, I didn’t forget how a stable relationship is supposed to go.”</p><p>Gina continues; “He’s meeting your family. You talk about ‘our’ book and ‘our’ research and ‘our’ schedule. Are you gonna taste cake samples next?”</p><p>Sonny pulls away from his sisters by pulling the closet door open and shoving his and Rafael’s coats onto two empty hangers. He almost debates stepping in himself and closing the door, but avoiding them would only show his sisters how accurate their words were and how deep they cut. Sonny had asked himself why Rafael insisted on doing so many personal things with him when they might not need to be so detailed. Would knowing the ins and outs of pitching a baseball really help him decipher Sonny’s childhood struggles? Meeting his family could help pinpoint why he acted a certain way or how he had picked up certain habits, but did that have to come after asking Amanda Rollins what she really thought about him?</p><p>Ever since their sessions had started, ever since their first meeting, Rafael had been nearly unpredictable and constantly committed to unconformity. And for what?</p><p>“I’m not going to answer your questions,” Sonny states, “because I don’t have to. Take that as you will.” He shuts the closet door and sends them one last glare. “And if you bring any of this up to him—”</p><p>Teresa scoffs as Gina hisses at him, “Do you really think that badly of us?!”</p><p>“I’m just saying. I’d appreciate this conversation staying between us.” Sonny walks away from them and hopes the distress he feels throbbing behind his eyes and pumping through his blood isn’t noticed by his mother or his ghostwriter. And he can only pray his sisters’ inquiries into Rafael and his intentions don’t plague his mind for the rest of the day.</p><p>Sonny does his best to help with the sauce but he finds himself distracted by the sleeves of Rafael’s sweater that have since been rolled up to his elbows. Bella returns to them and joins Christine in retelling stories about Sonny’s childhood—all known to Rafael, thankfully, though he plays along like he doesn’t. He lets the three Carisi’s lead in the kitchen and simply fulfills their requests, passing an ingredient or grabbing a requested utensil. Christine shares small quips about how to make their sauce but stops short of revealing the secrets to making it so good, eluding it with a wink and an inquiry into his career path.</p><p>Rafael tells her about his college years, the same as when he had told Sonny: going to Harvard had always been a priority, never an option, and calling himself an alumnus still feels like a dream. And while his interest in practicing law had lasted longer than Rita’s, hence his continued efforts to help Cunei Books as the legal advisor, he discovered something much more rewarding with writing books. This time, however, rather than listening to his words, Sonny zeroes in on his body language.</p><p>Rafael moves with a hypnotic fluidity, even in a space he is unfamiliar with, his back straight and his posture perfect. His hands flow through the air with clean cutting motions, everything precise and purposeful. He probably has the move calculated in his head before he does it. Sonny is enraptured with his eyes, not just in shade but in expression. They capture each emotion he utters and tease something deeper that lurks beneath the surface—a secret, maybe something unknown that has never been shared with another. Whatever it may be, Rafael defends it fiercely, and Sonny has to force himself to look away.</p><p>Rafael Barba is becoming a bit of a distraction. And maybe later, Sonny can decide what that means and how he feels about that. For now, he can only try not to ogle and try to remain attentive to the pasta sauce.</p><p>With three Carisi’s in the kitchen and a decent assistant, dinner is prepared and ready for the family. Gina recruits Rafael to help set the table and bring dishes to the dining room while Teresa rounds up the rest of the family accordingly and guides them to their usual seating arrangement. Sonny is thankful Rafael is thrust between him and Bella; anyone else and he might walk back to Manhattan on his own.</p><p>Sonny is washing up in the bathroom, the half-bath by the kitchen and perpendicular to the backdoor, when he hears someone open the door behind him. He turns around to see Rafael standing in the doorway, sleeves still rolled to his elbows and hair a bit disheveled. Sonny shares a laugh with him and shifts over so Rafael can have some room at the sink. “You cleaning up or escaping the chaos?”</p><p>“Both,” Rafael smirks. He wipes off a smudge of flour from his chin and jaw. Sonny looks at their reflections to stop himself from following the swipe of his finger. “Your family doesn’t understand volume control, I’ve come to learn.”</p><p>“Yeah, we never figured that out. At least you see where I get it from.”</p><p>Rafael laughs under his breath but doesn’t respond further, just lathers his hands with soap and washes them thoroughly. He dries his hands on a towel Sonny offers and adjusts his hair and sleeves, even going so far as to flick off a piece of invisible dirt off his shoulder. Sonny learned early on that Rafael cared deeply about his image in terms of physical appearances and how he dressed. The routine he has reminds Sonny of a batter up to bat, all fluid motions and familiar moves. He fluffs his hair gently, he untucks the right sleeve first and adjusts the cuff properly before the left side, he has three image checks: one for each side and then a full 360-degree turn. Initially, Sonny saw it as unnecessary and pompous, but now, after watching it at various intervals and in multiple locations, his actions are endearing to watch and admirable at how much thought he puts into even the smallest detail of his appearance.</p><p>Rafael follows Sonny’s gaze from his reflection to in-person, eyes sharpened from the dim vanity lights above the mirror and sending a shiver down his spine. “What?”</p><p>Sonny shakes his head, unable to resist a smile from crossing over his features. “It’s nothing. Just happy.”</p><p>Rafael quirks an eyebrow. “In your family’s bathroom?”</p><p>“Well, yeah, maybe not so much that, but this day has been nice. Usually, with the Carisi Sunday dinners, my sisters and I just bicker with each other and pick fights, but this was one of those days where we just enjoy being together, y’know?”</p><p>“Mm. I can see that, although I didn’t predict getting roped into making dinner for my first Carisi gathering.” He glances up at Sonny as he hands the hand towel back. “Maybe for my second, I can learn more about what it’s like to be part of such a rambunctious family.”</p><p>Sonny wipes his mind of any funny quips or clever comments as soon as the option for a second time comes up. Rafael wants to do this again; he hasn’t been scared off. Although there is still time for something to go wrong—especially if his older sisters are going to have a particular mindset about them—for right now, Sonny can entertain the idea that this can happen again. He can bring Rafael around and show him as many Carisi recipes as there are Sundays in a year. And from there, they can visit Bella and her family or Teresa and Mia throughout the week, or meet for brunch with Christine and Dom—just because they can.</p><p>“You know,” Rafael muses, breaking Sonny out of his daydream, “you’re so…different from any of my clients. And I mean that in a good way.”</p><p>Sonny tilts his head at that remark. “How’s that?”</p><p>“Besides your career?” Rafael shrugs, and for a split-second, he hesitates almost shyly, eyes darting away and shoulders turning inward. “You seem like a real person. You don’t have a front that you have to keep up to stop me from knowing who you are. Excluding what you don’t want to share, which you disclose with me, and I understand that and am grateful for your communication. But you’re…” he trails off again, shakes his head, and continues, “in the sense that you keep things between us honest and open, you’re real. Most people would think you’re a brainless jock who only knows how to pitch a baseball.”</p><p>“And lemme guess,” Sonny smirks, “you had the same thoughts.”</p><p>Rafael chuckles. “Is it obvious?”</p><p>“A little bit. I don’t blame you, though. With the amount of people I’ve known throughout my sports career, it’s not an unfair assumption.”</p><p>“Maybe not, but you proved early on that you were anything but. In fact, if I remember correctly,” Rafael steps close to him, barely enough for their chests to touch, and his smirk brings sparks to his eyes, “you made sure to speak your mind at every chance you saw.”</p><p>Sonny hides the flustered coloring of his cheeks with a laugh of his own and a duck of his head. “Right, right. Not like you weren’t giving me a fair chance or anything.”</p><p>“Thank you for proving my point.” Rafael’s smirk grows when Sonny huffs and pouts. “I know why you’re different, though. Your identity isn’t tethered to baseball. It’s one thread of many that makes up a whole. It’s so often that I get professionals in their field—real-life winners of at least one award in an EGOT—and they only function on one setting.” What looks like admiration flows from Rafael and through Sonny, intensifying the atmosphere between them tenfold. “You don’t. And I doubt you ever did or ever will.”</p><p>There are no words to describe the fondness radiating from Rafael, the absolute sincerity and the tenderness that drips from his voice. Sonny is struck by his words, but the tone of his voice echoes in his head and pools in his gut. If a younger version of himself heard that, the same Sonny who wandered through life for so long and felt like he was going nowhere, he would probably riot immediately. If there was more than baseball out there for him, what would he have to choose between? There could only be one career, one specialty, for himself, he would say.</p><p>Even now, with baseball trailing through his fingers like sand as the last grains of it are brushed away, he isn’t sure what there is for him. Not from a sense of loss of who he is, but at the many points he could deviate toward. An inability to decide where to go or to see which path is the best to take.</p><p>Sonny realizes they are very close now, just inches from touching, and Rafael is staring at his lips with such an intensity, it appears he’s about to do something about it. Sonny clears his throat and makes a move forward, but the sound disrupts Rafael and returns him to reality. He steps back from whatever thoughts had been weighing on his mind and checks himself in the mirror one last time. The left side, the right, a 360 turn, and then he’s gone. “I think dinner’s ready.”</p><p>Sonny just sighs and follows him out, hoping that the obvious yearning and disappointment isn’t audible in his voice.</p><p>Dinner is not a problem like Sonny had thought. In other words, he is so focused on what he and Rafael were doing in the half-bath that he blanks on monitoring his sisters from saying or doing anything abrasive. His conclusion: nothing happened between him and Rafael. They washed up, shared some words, commented on the family, and then left. There should be nothing to analyze, and yet Sonny is scrutinizing every detail in the middle of Sunday dinner.</p><p>Firstly, Rafael had said something nice to him—which, sure, is not necessarily new to their relationship at this point. But the strangeness comes in the words themselves. They were specifically aimed at Sonny’s character and appreciating it for how genuine and real it is. Which leads into the second point of Rafael respecting and thinking highly of him—and based on Sonny’s trips to Cunei Books, it’s a rare feat to accomplish. There have been a few times where they met in Rafael’s office, and the clients who passed his door or the coworkers who popped their heads in were addressed politely and either regarded with disdain or exasperated exhaustion when they left. Rafael is a hard man to please, and Sonny now knows that he has accomplished whatever would be the equivalent to that.</p><p>Third, and the one part Sonny snags on, in the recent weeks, Rafael has approached and addressed him with a tenderness so pronounced and so clear, it’s almost blinding. Sonny’s heart pangs when he realizes just how wistful they’ve both acted—how they’ve looked at each other, how the possibility of nothing blooming between them has melted gradually away, how they’ve talked to and about one another that suggests something else brewing that neither of them has brought up to one another. Sonny thinks his feelings are a mutual romantic attraction, but he can’t confirm Rafael’s. He can only guess that whatever it is has evolved from what they were in the beginning. Sonny considers him a confidant, a companion, a voice to mess with, to banter back and forth with, a warm tone that can shift to something more serious if the urge arises. He can imagine them meeting up after the book finishes, just for coffee, then lunch, then dinner, then a romp, then—</p><p>“So, Sonny,” Gina says, propping her elbows on the table, “now that you’re done with baseball, what’s next for you?”</p><p><em> I wouldn’t tell you even if I could answer. </em> The words translate to a shrug and a muted sigh half-stifled by a bite of ravioli. Sonny doesn’t say anything, dragging the pasta in front of him through the remnants of sauce on his plate to keep himself from looking up at his sisters. He only looks up when he notices Rafael momentarily turning towards him in his peripheral vision. Sonny is instantly mesmerized by how clear his eyes look, how precise the lights of the room emphasize his irises into a blazing olive tone. Since when did his eyes become so distracting?</p><p>“I think I’ll have to intentionally walk you and tell you to read the book when it’s released,” Rafael answers, giving a noncommittal shrug and a satisfied hum when Gina frowns. “We’ll be discussing his life after baseball plenty of times.”</p><p>“C’mon, you can’t even give us a sneak peek?” Gina goads. Sonny sees through it instantly; she knows there are other ways for her to get her point across. Being coy was her favorite.</p><p>Rafael shoots her a stare that Sonny reads as a warning glower but knows it doesn’t translate the same way to those who don’t know how to read him. If anything, it would be seen as stoic and unbreaking, maybe aloof, from the tense line his brows form to the thin press of his lips. Sonny notices the clench of his jaw and watches him swallow his irritation away. “If that’s the case, then you would know more than me. I  start writing next week.” He gestures to the rest of the table with his fork; “Sunday dinner was the last thing I needed to witness for myself before starting. Christine, the ravioli is amazing. What’s your recipe?”</p><p>The conversation diverts from the book they’re writing and to the multitude of recipes that have been passed down to the Carisi children and their children. Sonny is once again thankful that of all the writers at Cunei Books, Rafael is the one responsible for writing his story. No one else would be able to treat him with as much respect or understand him at a basic level of instinct. And even if they did, none would be as effective or impactful as Rafael Barba.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>We got some ~sexy~ content in here happy Kinktober haha</p>
<p>Also a mild warning for some deep mental health talks in B5, nothing too heavy but enough to give a warning</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>T5</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>During the fifth week of writing planned for Sonny’s ghostwritten memoir, Rafael invites him to his apartment in Chelsea for the session. A migraine that had popped up the day before has ruined their plans of meeting up for lunch, as they have done for the past month. Rafael got more writing done outside of their scheduled sessions, but he suggested meeting once a week to keep the voice of Sonny familiar to him. According to Rafael, it’s easier to write when they interact regularly and his source is right in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, splitting migraines that limit every source of light in a fairly suave Chelsea apartment and drape a thick blanket over Rafael’s entire body don’t care much for their plans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny steps into the apartment quietly and toes off his shoes by the door. His socks will surely mute most of his walking noise, but Rafael specifically demanded he remove them when he arrived. Just because he was unwell didn’t mean his house rules, as emphasized through the memories of previous conversations and the heated texts he receives on the ride over, could be ignored without repercussions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sonny?” A soft voice drifts from the blanket mound on the regal blue sofa. Sonny holds back his reaction at the pitiful droop of Rafael’s voice. It sounds like a particularly bad migraine if his voice is so low and he’s deathly still on the sofa, the only movement coming from his deep breathing. “Is that you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s me,” Sonny says, offering a smile that he hopes is heard through his voice. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to steal anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael makes a deep growl of a sound that might have been a proper scoff or eyeroll in any other circumstance. “Except my time, maybe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t mean that.” Sonny, the door locked behind him and his shoes dropped off by the front door, pads into the living room and sits on the opposite end of the couch. “You wanna be sassy with the person who’s making you lunch today?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I’m pardoned for having an attitude today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Being sassy and having an attitude are two different things, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The side of the blanket facing the couch parts just a smidge, and through the dim lighting in the living room and the sun, a green eye glares at him. Sonny offers a playful smile, gently swatting at the middle finger thrown his way, and takes a look around. There’s an armchair with a laptop on it, probably Rafael’s chosen workspace for the day but now left abandoned and unopened. The fabric of the armchair matches the sofa’s and contrasts nicely with the deep brown wood of the table that divides the seating from the modern design of the fireplace. The kitchen is visible from the wall to his left via the pass-through window. The dining room is shielded from view by the kitchen, but before the entrance to the kitchen is a hallway with three doors, two shut but one open just a crack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny’s attention returns to Rafael when he hears a muted shuffle and finds the lump of blanket curled even further in on himself. They had discussed Rafael’s migraines as a possibility that could flare up and prohibit writing momentarily. Sonny hadn’t minded when they discussed it, and he doesn’t mind now. If anything, his heart pangs for the other man. From what he had been told, they were terribly painful and essentially debilitating. A planned day of work that could get it done, no matter how small, was a big, although rare, accomplishment. Unfortunately, that might not be one of those days.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have medicine for your migraines, right?” Sonny asks, continuing when he receives a confirming nod. “Have you taken it? I’m gonna get started on lunch, so I don’t wanna disrupt you too much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have,” Rafael responds, a ragged edge to his voice appearing the more he speaks. “I should be good to go in a few more minutes. It takes longer to work the stronger the migraine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I understand. I’m not in a rush, I can wait.” Sonny pauses, his eyes catching a glimpse of orange and blue on the fireplace mantel. The television is screwed into the wall above the fireplace, and as nice as it may be, Sonny doesn’t spare it a second glance. He’s too busy looking at a picture frame muddled with a crowd in the backdrop and three grinning people in the foreground, all of them decked out in familiar-looking gear. Next to it is a glass case holding a white handball, slightly grimy from the playing time it must have gotten, with red stitches on either side and two black scrawls between them. “Huh. This is my first time in your apartment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael peeks out again from the blanket, barely half of an eye looking over. If he notices or recognizes what Sonny is saying, he doesn’t show it. “It is. I don’t usually invite first-time clients over.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny smirks. “That would entail that you have clients that come back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or really lucky ones. Don’t get any ideas,” he adds, his leg stretching out from under the blanket to prod at Sonny’s knee. Sonny offers nothing but a simper in response. “I know I said this before, but help yourself to any food or drinks. If I wasn’t always prepared for guests, this place wouldn’t look as lived-in as it does.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, you got a nice place.” Sonny stands and walks over to the fireplace mantel. Up close, he can recognize its contents much better; it looks like Rafael and Rita had been invited to a Mets game. He doesn’t recognize the third person but he does not doubt that they’re a client. Sonny can’t tell what year it was or which game they attended, but he knows Citi Field just as well as any Mets player. His second home is the backdrop in a photograph with Rafael Barba. “This is a nice photo. When’d you take this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which one is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The Mets one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael goes silent, shifting under the blanket that turns further into the couch. “Mm. So you noticed that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He says something else, but Sonny is focused on the glass case. It’s definitely a baseball, and certainly not from a recent game if the David Wright signature is any indication. Sonny glances above the noticeable scrawl to find a message: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Enjoy the fly ball. You’ll always be ready.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re lucky I’m indisposed,” Rafael jeers. “Otherwise, I’d be limiting your snooping to one personal item per visit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you blame me? This is the first look I get of your apartment.” Sonny walks back to the sofa but doesn’t sit, eyeing the laptop abandoned on the armchair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael lets out a long sigh; Sonny can imagine him crossing his arms while he shoots a side-eye as strong as an iron. “I’ll let you ask one question.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny glances over his shoulder between the photos and the baseball. Knowing Rafael, he probably wants him to be as specific as possible so that he can give as much straightforward information as he wants. Or at least the questions that require a “yes” or “no” answer. Just to be safe, he words his question as vaguely as possible; “What’s the story behind the photo?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A few years ago, Mike Cutter reprised his Golden Globe-nominated role as RFK in a limited series on Netflix that covered the lives of the nine Kennedy siblings. Rita and I documented the process, and as part of our research with Mike, we went to a Mets game at Citi Field.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers the Netflix show—it was talked about for months when it came out and has earned many nominations for its cast—and looking back at the photo, he recognizes the actor Mike Cutter as Bobby Kennedy in the special. Somehow, Rafael looks natural in a box seat. Probably because he frequents games so often; his shirt has a worn quality to it, like it’s been cared for and donned many a time through the years. He’ll have to look out for him at the games next season.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As a fan, he reminds himself. He’s retired now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you gonna let me ask about the ball?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nope,” Rafael states, as firm as he has been and sounding more like his typical self.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny shrugs and sighs, heading to the kitchen to get started on lunch. “Worth a try, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not there for consultation, and Rafael isn’t getting any writing done with a migraine causing enough pain to tone down his usually hard exterior. Sonny is there to help Rafael more than anything. And yet the concept of aiding the fearsome ghostwriter that is Rafael Barba is strange. It should be expected at this point, after many months of talking with him and discussing his life. But that wasn’t the reason why he was there. His way of helping Rafael was different than the way he’s gotten used to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whaddya have for us today?” Sonny asks as he opens the fridge. There are plenty of cold cuts and some vegetables that catch his eye. He could make a quick soup with that, and his grilled cheese had never received a complaint in all the years he had crafted it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll take whatever you can piece together,” Rafael mumbles. The lump on the sofa stretches out to take up the free space.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny pulls out the veggies—a yellow onion and two tomatoes, definitely reasonable portions to make something. “How about some soup?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny nearly drops the onion. “You just said you’d have anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Soup is an exception.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you have against soup?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s wet and useless. Why would I ever want any of my food to be wet?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny sighs and sets aside the onion and pepper so he can open the cabinets. Luckily, there are a few unopened cans of tomato sauce that he can use. “You haven’t had my tomato soup. Or my grilled cheese.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t say I have, bat boy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny glances over his shoulder to look at the blanket mound, vaguely remembering the nickname from the friendly learning session with Mike and Nick. “Bat boy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The blob makes a gesture that emulates a nod. “What other baseball nickname is there for you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, you could have made a catcher-or-a-pitcher joke instead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Too easy.” A hand flops over and curls over the back of the couch. “Head hurts.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Sonny crouches down to look through the collection of pots and pans for a cutting board, doing his best to minimize the clanging that can only enhance Rafael’s migraine, “what about southpaw? Since I’m a lefty pitcher.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm. Even easier. And keep that down, please,” Rafael snaps, huffing out a breath when Sonny responds with an offended scoff. “The fact that you expect my brain to function when you’re clanging around in my kitchen as hard as my migraine is downright laughable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Y’know, I don’t have to make lunch. I can order out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael doesn’t protest after that, though Sonny can feel a piercing stare trail after him when he stands back up with the cutting board. An annoyed Rafael, with snippy remarks for any occasion, is at least bearable when his anger is directly sourced from a migraine. At least Sonny can be at ease with the fact that it’s not personally directed at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The soup is made within an hour, most of the time used prepping the ingredients and searching for spices, and the rest spent on grilled cheese he whips up while the soup simmers on the stovetop. Rafael manages to emerge from the blanket, dressed in a loose v-neck and a pair of plaid sleep pants, and makes a short journey to the dining room table. He grabs a pair of sunglasses from the counter and downs half a glass of water from his dispenser before he slumps into a chair, head bowed and silent. Even in a migraine-ridden state, he looks put-together, ruffled hair and all. He crosses his arms on the table and rests his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny keeps an eye on him, frowning at the tension in Rafael’s shoulders. He looks so much smaller in this state, it’s a bit unsettling to witness. Rafael had explained how bad his migraines could get, but there was a difference dealing with it directly. Sonny wonders if he had undermined the severity when he had first brought it up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You feeling any better?” Sonny asks. The grilled cheese is all but ready, both sandwiches toasted to a golden brown. There had been a few different types of cheese in the fridge and Sonny could already tell it was going to make for a good lunch. The soup has a few more minutes, but with his recent and last round of stirring, it’ll be just as tasty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A little,” Rafael lets out a short sigh, stretching his arms out before he sits up. The periwinkle v-neck clings to him and shifts against his biceps, tight around his arms just enough to define the muscles. “I’ll be better when I get some food.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Sonny can’t help but smile at that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael nods just once. “It smells good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny hides the flush in his cheeks with a bow of his head and an adjustment of two bowls onto the plates. “Thanks. It’s not a lot, but, y’know, you can make anything into soup.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve heard as much.” His arm resting on the back of the chair, Rafael massages his temple with his index and middle fingers as he grunts under his breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can close the blinds if you think that’ll help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, keep them open. It’s the one productive thing I’ve done today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny chuckles at that and returns to the soup, ladling a generous amount into one of the bowls he had grabbed earlier. “Fair enough. If you do, though, I’d be happy to close them for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out of the corner of his eye, Rafael smiles warmly. “I appreciate that, thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny places the bowls of soup into the middle of the plate and arranges the grilled cheese beside the bowl. He’s adding utensils to both servings when Rafael stands, slowly, and turns to the kitchen. Sonny abandons their lunches to dart to his side. “Hey, what’re you trying to do? Take it easy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael swats at his hand. “Relax, I’m just grabbing a drink. I didn’t break my leg.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, but I’m here to help you out. I can grab whatever you need.” Sonny glances around the kitchen for something to give him instead, but Rafael just nudges past him and opens the fridge. Sonny reaches for the fridge’s door handle just as Rafael opens it and moves in front of him. His shoulder gets in the way instantly, and the brush against the cloth of his shirt makes Sonny reel his hand back. It was softer than he could imagine, the warmth lingering on his fingertips with a slight reminder of the moment. Sonny clears his throat in an attempt to steady his racing mind and throbbing heart; Rafael simply glances at him with an arched brow. “You said yourself that your migraine was still getting better. Let me help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rather than providing an answer, Rafael grabs a bottle of Perrier sparkling water and shuts the fridge door. From what Sonny can see past the sunglasses, he keeps his gaze trained on Sonny until he sits down again. Sonny lets out a long breath before resuming any remaining kitchen duties, including grabbing his own water and finding some extra utensils just in case. He serves Rafael first, setting the plate down in front of him and handing over the utensils. By the time he grabs his things, Rafael is already biting into the grilled cheese and humming with contentment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny laughs quietly as his shoulders sag, no longer burdened by the migraine with the distraction in front of him. “It’s good?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael only nods and takes another bite. He saves half of the sandwich to dip into the tomato soup, which he tastes separately and reacts just as strongly to. “I’ve never liked soup,” he says, “but I can make an exception.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have some other recipes I can make for you. My Italian wedding soup is my best, but I’m biased to my pumpkin soup.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll have to try them both sometime.” They eat in silence momentarily. Sonny is more focused on eating—the soup is warm and checks off every note of flavor he wanted, and the toasted bread melts down into the cheese without ruining the crunch—and doesn’t notice Rafael staring at him until he speaks. “Thank you for coming over today. I didn’t expect you to take the time to come over, but I’m grateful that you did and you should know that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny swallows roughly before he finds the ability to speak again. He didn’t realize until he looked up that he is being examined with the same expression he saw in a bathroom in the middle of suburban Staten Island one month ago. Whatever that moment had been, it hadn’t repeated itself, even though their stares lingered a bit longer and their hands drifted a bit closer each time they sat beside each other. But it was never voiced or acknowledged. “It’s no problem, honest. I’d do this for anyone.” Sonny bites the inside of his cheek—he wouldn’t do this for just anyone, even if he did want to help his friends, and even if he would drop everything to make sure they were safe and healthy. But the meaning is different; Rafael could ask him to make his meals for an entire week, and he would do it without any questions. Not everyone would receive that treatment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael leans forward, his head tilting to one side. “Would you? For anyone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Honest green eyes bore into him, clouded with expectation and hope, a vulnerability that might not come around again. Sonny can only wish he reflects that same expression. “Not really, no. At least not to the extent I want to go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah?” Rafael’s eyes lower to his lips, as brief as it is and as much as Sonny wants to do something about it. “Is that so?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” He can’t help but smirk, the familiar urge to banter with him bubbling in his chest. “I don’t make food like this for just anyone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael nods, leaning back in his chair and eyeing his food like he had forgotten it was there. Sonny has the urge to ask him what’s on his mind, to try and continue down this line of conversation, but Rafael beats him to it. “I can let you read what I’ve already written for your book.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Our book,” Sonny corrects.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael rolls his eyes. “Call it what you will. I have the first few chapters down and the next two after that outlined. I’ll show them to you after lunch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny will tell himself later that he at least tried to not rush through lunch, that he savored the grilled cheese and the tomato soup he dunked and sipped from. But he knows better—if only because Rafael is just as hurried, although a bit slower at a cheesy bite or a slurp of hot liquid. They remain quiet for the rest of lunch, although Rafael supplies one last compliment before he returns to the living room. His sunglasses rest on the vee of his shirt, digging in perfectly to the fabric and staying aloft. Sonny tries not to focus on that fact as he cleans up their dishes and rinses them before he discards them in the dishwasher. Whatever will get him closer to Rafael.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’re you feeling?” Sonny asks when he returns to the living room. A conversation starter like that was surely the best and easiest way to start for their situation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still achy, but to an extent,” Rafael replies, nodding to the sunglasses hanging on his shirt. His laptop sits on the coffee table, opened to a word document; there’s a spot next to him on the couch, the side not covered by the crumpled blanket previously used. “I’ll be alright for now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny can’t help but give him a teasing smile. “Damn, I didn’t think my soup was that good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael glares at him, but it’s weak and contradicted by the tugging at the corner of his lips. “Actually, I didn’t taste the buckets of love you say you always pour into your food, so I don’t think it helped much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s always next time.” Sonny eyes the laptop, a rise of fear bubbling in his throat. Rafael is a prolific writer, he knows this already from reading some of the samples Rita had provided and Amanda had passed along. But there’s a thrilling sort of terror—what Rafael thinks of him, how Rafael writes him, how it’ll translate to his goal to write a book in the first place—that brews in his chest. He isn’t sure what to make of it, mostly because all of it is speculation and nothing has been confirmed. It sits between wanting to read the chapters and never checking them out again to avoid them entirely. He doesn’t know how exposed he’ll become with his book, so he’ll play dumb for a bit longer. “Are they ready?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael nods. It’s reassuring to see him just as cautious, perched on the edge of the couch, hands folded in his lap. “Yeah. Just go to the window behind this one when you finish the chapter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny sits down on the couch, pulls the laptop into his lap, and gets to reading. In the early days of their partnership, he had supplied some writing material of his own to gauge the next step for Rafael to develop and create his voice. If he compared the public statements he’s made over the years to the writing in front of him, he wouldn’t see a difference. And if there were any, they wouldn’t be noticeable at first glance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The writing is impeccable, the words flowing across the page so casually and so precise, so accurate to him that Sonny has to remind himself he didn’t write it. The first chapter outlines what got him to write a memoir in the first place—he wants his story to be told, revealed to the public, to remove stereotypes he witnessed and, at times, had to give into. He always knew there was limited exposure to openly queer athletes, especially when they were men and </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> when they were bi or pan, but he didn’t realize how severe it was until a volunteering session with a youth center in Brooklyn, two years before his retirement. A young teenage boy had eluded to his sexuality being the reason he was giving up basketball since he didn’t see many people like him and he doubted there ever would be. Sonny saw that same thing long ago, morphed by his own thoughts and experiences as a closeted athlete. He didn’t see any reason for him not to use his voice and to start a conversation that has been neglected for so long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chapter one says all of that. It suggests why he feels so strongly about it, although Sonny has yet to tell Rafael why or to go into specifics. They haven’t reached that point in their relationship anyway. Chapter two ties into the first, discussing Sonny’s family and how he was raised. Sonny is shocked by how humbling it is to read such fantastic writing and to hear his own voice in sentences he did not craft. There is so much weight in the words, so much compassion and hope, Sonny is fixated on each one, confounded by how easy it looks for Rafael to write someone else’s voice and put it to paper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wow,” Sonny breathes out, unable to stop the smile from rising on his face and digging into his cheeks. “Rafael, this is amazing.” He doesn’t wait for a reply and skims the outlines Rafael had opened for the upcoming chapters. Chapter three isn’t as fleshed out but the paragraphs that are written already speak for themselves. “You got my voice down perfectly. It’s like I wrote it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Sonny still doesn’t get an answer, he turns to Rafael and finds him staring right at him, focused on his lips as if mesmerized by the sight of them. Sonny is suddenly hyper-aware of how much closer they’ve become. The couch is long, but the space between them is limited, their thighs just barely touching. Rafael must not realize how close they are, because he keeps on leaning forward just the slightest bit, as if to go and kiss him, and moving back with hesitation. Sonny’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, and Rafael follows the motion with his eyes, silent yet clearly distracted. His eyes flicker up for one second, as if to realize what he’s doing, and Rafael turns away and faces forward. A deep yearning pangs in Sonny’s chest, and he follows Rafael’s lead, setting the laptop on the coffee table and turning forward. There’s barely a hand’s width between them; Sonny has to either lean back or fold his hands in his lap. He chooses the latter, his left hand going behind Rafael, the only available space for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s really good,” Sonny whispers, wistful and airy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad to hear,” Rafael murmurs back with a nod. The smile on his face curves up coyly. “I don’t share my drafts like this for just anyone.” Sonny looks at him, all honest green eyes and cautious interest, defined by the desire lurking beneath the surface. Rafael smirks. “Sound familiar?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny opens his mouth but no words come out. He knows why he said he doesn’t cook food for just anyone. The only reason Rafael would mention it is if he felt the same way, whether he read Sonny or he took a leap of faith. Regardless, the deep yearning that has been brewing inside Sonny for the past few weeks bursts and propels him to close the gap between them and kiss Rafael.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It only lasts a few seconds, barely enough time to relish in the contact or comprehend it, but Rafael is already reaching up for him when Sonny moves back. Rafael starts to utter something, the start of a request to come back, but he interrupts himself by dragging Sonny down onto his lips. Sonny scoots closer so he can hold his face between his hands and ground himself into reality. This is real, Rafael’s lips are tender proof of that, and he will happily consume as much as he is allowed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kiss is sensual, slow morphs of their lips colliding, heads tilted for the best angle. Sonny digs deeper into the feeling and hums at the soft brush of Rafael’s thumb over his cheek. He feels secure, protected in Rafael’s hold, cherished by the determined shift of his mouth and the swell of emotions flowing over them. An overwhelming thirst for more compels him to open his mouth and prod at Rafael’s. He is welcomed in and met with equal vigor, stirring the growing tightness in his pants.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny chokes on a breath of air as they pull back. Rafael is smiling at him, eyes warm and lips plump and shiny. He leans forward and dots butterfly kisses all along his skin—under his jaw, on the tip of his chin, down the meat of his neck. Sonny grabs the back of Rafael’s shirt when he dips down, for just a moment, past his collar. If they’re going to do anything further, it should be somewhere other than a couch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wanna—” Sonny starts to utter before the separation is too much and he hauls Rafael back up to him, colliding lips and tongue and teeth. The eloquence of the kiss is abandoned for the lust that pulls Sonny backward and drags Rafael on top of him. Sonny shifts his hips out to allow the other man more room. His eyes widen when Rafael moves back to grab his shirt—the periwinkle v-neck that outlined his form and hugged his biceps like a second skin. Sonny’s throat runs dry immediately.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are better places than here,” Rafael huffs out, “for what I want us to do. But I’m not going any further until I hear your verbal consent.” His eyes are screaming with want, curled into olive tendrils and hazel droplets of energy and lust. But he exhibits a pillar of control with how upright he sits, determination radiating off of his body as a companion to the patience for an answer and the respect if he is turned down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want anything you’ll give me,” Sonny says. His voice doesn’t sound like him, all airy and desperate for more, so he says more. Just to make sure his want, his lust, is heard. “I want you. Christ, I’ll take what I can get from you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael smirks at that. “Some good Catholic boy. Don’t worry,” his arms—finally—move up and remove his shirt in one fell swoop, “I’m not any better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If his biceps were tight under the shirt, Sonny can see why. Rafael Barba is all man: chest dusted with dark curls of hair, biceps thick and as solid as the rest of him, the softest curve to his belly that is all too endearing. And the trail of hair that leads down to his sleep pants, past the hem and framed by the marked vee of his hips. Sonny can’t help but lick his lips and he scrambles to sit up and rip off his shirt. He needs to touch him. He needs to feel Rafael’s skin and have it collide with his, to share the warmth and desire he knows is just waiting for release. He can see it written all over his face, suddenly open with the reveal of Sonny’s chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Rafael breathes out. He touches Sonny’s left pec and straight-up ogles him, down his abdomen and over the defined muscle, up his pecs and the dusty pink hue of his nipples. He reaches out to touch one and Sonny, jumping in place from the sensation, gasps when the pads of his fingers briefly tweak on one. The contact is as electrifying as he originally hoped. Rafael leans over him, still fascinated by his torso if his glued gaze is any indication, and rests a hand on his shoulder. “You really don’t leave much to the imagination.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny prods his chest with a playful snort. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying your expectations were correct?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m saying you were already showing this,” he points to the muscles of his lower abdomen, “with a shirt on. But seeing it without one,” Rafael closes the gap between them, noses brushed together, “is much more enjoyable for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny pulls him back down as Rafael dives down and kisses him, searing hot to the touch, his beard tickling the contrasting skin of Sonny’s cheeks and jaw. He can’t wrangle his jeans’ zipper down fast enough to yank out his cock. Rafael is more focused on his own pants and pulling his out to take note of it. He pulls Sonny’s hand forward to touch him, and the contact is immediately transformed into an electric current. Rafael’s dick is hot and half-hard, thicker than it is long by the weight of it. Sonny runs his fingers down the length of it to a pleased hum, which evolves into a soft cry when he returns to the tip. A generous blob of precum drops onto his fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael breathes out. “Christ.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny chuckles, eyes shutting closed as he grabs Rafael at the base of his dick and tugs. “And you got on me for saying it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He barely has the chance to respond, airy gasps breaking between broken words as Sonny jerks him to full hardness. Sonny aches for contact but forces himself to stay patient. He holds Rafael’s wrist in his other hand and brings it up to his face to kiss the underside. There are a thousand and one ways to kiss Rafael Barba and a thousand and two places he could do it. And he could probably find them all if he searched hard enough. However long it took, he would dedicate any amount of time for Rafael’s happiness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny’s hand falters in its motions when Rafael reaches down and grabs him. A cry is yanked from his chest and into the steaming air between them. Rafael licks the side of his neck, right above his pulse. “Shit.” His hand is warm and soft, his fingers firm and confident as they move over him. Sonny tries to angle his hips for more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm.” Rafael licks his lips as he drags the ring of his fingers up to the head of Sonny’s cock. “Long.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny’s hips stutter and buck at the remark. “Dammit.” He squeezes around Rafael and gets an exclamation of his own, one composed of filth and lust.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Bat boy’ has a whole new meaning.” Rafael brings their dicks together and squeezes, wrangling a cry from his own mouth and a yell from Sonny’s. “You could hit a home-run cycle with this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny is too focused on the hands around him and the sensation to notice his words. He won’t remember it later, when they clean up and, both stripped naked and admiring their bare forms, take a nap on Rafael’s bed. Rafael will cite heightened migraine pain, Sonny will request some sleep with a companion, and they’ll commit to it. They’ll wake up to slow sex, Rafael moaning as Sonny holds his leg up and thrusts slowly into him, hips rolling each time he finds his prostate. There are more important things to focus on than Rafael’s baseball knowledge.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>B5</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a hickey on Rafael’s neck that is currently peeking above the collar of his dress shirt. The same dress shirt Sonny had slipped the suspenders off of and would have ripped open if Rafael hadn’t grabbed his wrists and reeled them in. The same neck that Sonny nudged his nose against before he found the perfect spot to suck his lips on and dig his teeth into. The same spot Rafael had urged him to bite “harder” and bucked his hips at when Sonny grabbed the back of his shirt and curled his hands into the fabric. They’ve been working in Rafael’s office at Cunei Books for the better half of the morning. Most of it has been a clarification of facts more than anything else while Rafael progressed further into his writing, which Sonny was more than happy to help him with. The problem is that Sonny has been getting distracted with casual reminders of their more intimate interactions, which have been going on for a few weeks at this point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For one, Rafael has rolled his sleeves halfway up his arms, emphasizing the shape of his biceps—one of Sonny’s favorite things about his body—and bunching at his elbows. He types the story on his computer and scribbles new material down on a notepad, meaning a pen is either behind his ear or twirling between his fingers. Sonny’s heart swells when he notices the blot of ink on his temple and that, when Rafael gets caught in his thoughts, he nibbles on the end of the pen. And as noon inches closer, Rafael’s eyes make frequent trips to the clock outside of his office or to his watch in an impatient wait for lunch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So for the fifth chapter,” Rafael states, breaking Sonny out of his rambled thoughts, “we’ll talk about your start in baseball and what it means to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds right,” Sonny nods. He walks away from the window spanning the entirety of the back wall and sits down in front of Rafael’s desk. “In terms of a timeline, y’know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It doesn’t have to be your entire baseball career, since we still have other chapters you want to dedicate to your time at university, so we can tackle it however you want.” He leans back in his seat and scratches his cheek, the sound of his beard distracting Sonny from whatever he wanted to say. He was curious to see what Rafael looked like without a beard, but his mind was occupied with thoughts of that same beard scraping against his thighs. And the suspenders—Sonny wants to lean forward and snap them against Rafael’s chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A crumpled ball of paper is thrown at him and thumps against his chest; Sonny looks up to find Rafael glowering at him impatiently. “Huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael scoffs. “You’re lucky I’m just as hungry. We can break for lunch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I promise, I’m listening.” Sonny sits up in an attempt to appear focused, but Rafael doesn’t buy it and stands, walking around his desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We needed it anyway. I’m not offended by it.” He sits in front of Sonny and takes one more glance at the office behind him—much like Rita, his office walls are made of glass with the bottom half frosted—before he leans down and captures his lips. Sonny groans into the kiss and wraps his hands around his neck, but Rafael moves away, smirking when Sonny pouts at him. “Don’t relish in it yet. We still have work to do.” He glances out at the office again, probably looking out for anyone who may walk by and catch them. “And I think we should talk more about this before we do anything in public.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny hums in agreement and takes his hand. Rafael’s palm is warm, his fingers streaked with ink from twirling his pen. He can see the hickey better now, peeping just over the collar and teasing Sonny with the purple hue. They had been eager to see each other that morning, so much that they shared a quick moment in the bathroom outside of the office before Sonny’s appointment. He walked in at nine with money for breakfast and greetings to the employees, and no one was the wiser.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you think,” Rafael muses, “Chinese? Thai?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Cuban.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sonny bites his lower lip to stop himself from saying it out loud. “I dunno. Sandwiches, maybe?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can go for that. There’s a Cuban deli a few blocks away that makes good Cubanos. Want me to put in an order?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Sounds good.” Sonny smiles, noticing instantly that Rafael tilts his head away quickly and clears his throat. “I trust you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They eat with whoever else is in the office—even though, Sonny observes, they would much rather spend their time together—and stretch their legs out. Sonny tries to restrain himself from ogling Rafael as he stretches, his shirt tugging over his skin as he does and his pink-striped suspenders curving with the motion, but he feels better about it when he sees Rafael eyeing his legs as he gets up to toss his plate of food away. It doesn’t help that Rafael mimics a wiping motion over his mouth and laughs under his breath when Sonny can’t get a stray droplet of mustard off his face. Witnesses be damned, Sonny would pounce on him and wrap himself in his arms if Rafael had approved public affection. He would have to wait until later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rita grabs Rafael for a business-related matter right when he and Sonny reach his office again and assures them it won’t take long. Something about a possible client causing issues with the negotiations of a contract. Rafael waves Sonny into his office to wait for his return, allowing Sonny a few minutes of peace—and, maybe, a bit more snooping.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael’s office is the same size as Rita’s, but it feels smaller with the bookshelves along the right-handed wall opposite his desk. Sonny glances over their spines and isn’t too surprised at the number of law books he finds. There’s a smaller bookshelf with more familiar names on them, the majority of which can only be his works as a ghostwriter on the other side of the room. Like Rita’s office, there’s a coffee machine and a basket of snacks on that bookshelf, although this one looks less stocked. Sonny chuckles at that—Rafael Barba loves his snacks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Next to the shorter bookcase is a plant, generously cared for and flourishing, and next to that is an accent table with a smaller succulent and a series of framed photographs. The first is one of Rita and Rafael at their Harvard graduation, black gowns ingrained with a purple emblem on the front and billowing around them. Recent college graduate Rafael Barba is scruffy, a bit tired-looking, but there’s a carefree weight to his shoulders that can only come from graduation. The second photo is one of him and who must be his mother and grandmother. All three are standing in his Cunei Books office, both tightly hugging him and both with the same green eyes and daring spark in them as Rafael. This version of him is clean-shaven; Sonny can’t decide if he wants the beard or the clean shave more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The third photo was taken after a baseball game. Rafael is standing next to David Wright, former Mets third baseman and one of Sonny’s former teammates, in the Mets locker room. It must have been a game during the 2000s, before he was called up from the Brooklyn Cyclones, at the top of David’s career. Once again, a thousand and one questions rise to his mind at the second piece of Mets memorabilia owned by his ghostwriter in front of him. Sonny picks up the photo and stares at it, waiting for some sort of explanation to spring from it. How have they not discussed this before?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, out with it. I know you have some burning questions you’d like to ask.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny whips around and watches Rafael stride across his office and sit behind his computer as if he had never left in the first place. He doesn’t look surprised, although Rafael also has an iron-clad poker face. Right now, he looks unimpressed and more concerned with the order of his papers than whatever Sonny is doing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a contemplative sigh, Sonny sets the third photograph down. He can’t look away from the two in it, and he can’t ignore the burning curiosity inside him any longer. “Well, I can tell you’re a Mets fan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael simpers and nods. “I wasn’t raised to be one, but yes, I am. Baseball has been one of the only sports I can tolerate. The others are pointless.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You grew up in the Bronx, right?” When Rafael nods, Sonny hums quietly and walks forward to sit back down in his chair. “Yankees were probably your neighbors. Why not support them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something tells him Rafael would rather keep that information private; he looks down at his keyboard in deep contemplation and drums his fingers against the edge of his desk. His shoulders are raised, defending him from the world around him. “It’s…” He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “It’s a long story. One I’d rather not get into right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I understand. I’ve had my secrets.” Sonny offers a smile in solidarity, but it falls short. His gut clenches when Rafael doesn’t so much as look up at him. He tries again; “Y’know what, if it’s in the past, who are we to decide it’s important information if it doesn’t affect who we are today?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael snorts at that, finally raising his head and glancing up at him. “Coming from someone whose past is being written down in order to be published for anyone to read, I don’t know if you can say that right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny chuckles and shrugs in defeat. “It was worth a try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm.” With one last look at the paper in front of him, Rafael crosses his arms and leans forward. “What made you become a Mets fan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was raised into it. My mom grew up as one, and she got us all into it.” Sonny smiles at the memory; his mom loved going to baseball games, no matter what the weather was. His dad hadn’t always been a baseball fan, but meeting Christine Federico and her fierce determination was enough to convince him. “My dad used to make fun of her for it. He’d joke that Mets fans are a special sort of fan because even when they have the worst season imaginable, they still have hope that they’ll have a chance at a playoff game.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael bows his head to stifle a laugh. “He’s not wrong. There’s always next season.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny grins. “Exactly! Growing up, I couldn’t think of anything better. I…” He trails off, the memories flashing behind his eyes. He hasn’t revealed much to Rafael from his early days in baseball. Rafael had been kind enough to let him skip past it, but Sonny feels compelled to say something now. His experience is valid, and he knows Rafael won’t repeat any of this to anyone. He has the utmost trust in his ghostwriter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first few times they met up and Sonny wanted to reveal something personal, Rafael asked if he wanted it recorded via notes, always reaching for his notepad just in case. Now, Rafael’s body language tells a different story, brows drawn close together and hand reaching forward in an offer of silent comfort. Sonny sits up with a thankful smile, as small as it may be, genuine at its core.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I idolized baseball for a long time. I started playing when I was in fifth grade just because. I mean, everyone had a thing in my family. Teresa and Bella were dancers, and Gina was always in some sort of club after-school. It was natural I did </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> after school, y’know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wanted to fit in,” Rafael says in a soft tone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny nods, smiling grimly. “If it wasn’t baseball, it was gonna be something else. Baseball was the first thing that came to my mind. We always saved money to go to Shea Stadium for the first home game of the season. Bella and I would find any excuse to go to the park and practice pitching. For a couple of years, it was…,” Sonny pauses, smiles to himself, and takes a step forward, “good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This will be the farthest back in his history Sonny will be telling Rafael about his earliest years of baseball. He already expects the confused head tilt and the curious glance in his eyes. Sonny wonders if their relationship—the one restricted to nighttime, or at least when their yearning for one another is large enough to not be avoided—has anything to do with how much Rafael shows him. “How long did you say you played baseball as a kid?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny pauses to calculate the years in his head. “I left when I was twelve, so I was only in little league for about two years. I went between first and third base the entire time. I was okay at batting, but I loved playing the field. The ball could go anywhere, and you have to be so quick in the infield to get the runner out. I used to love third base because your goal was to make sure no one scored. There’s something magical about getting the ball and stepping onto third when a runner is coming your way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So why’d you stop playing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I…well, I was conflicted. I wanted to be myself but I wanted to be ‘right,’ whatever that meant. And not necessarily because of baseball,” Sonny adds before Rafael can ask. “Baseball didn’t make me quit. I was having trouble with this kid. He was a year older but we were on the same team, and during my first week of practice, he threw me into a locker and told me I would never amount to anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael frowns at that. “Jeez. Middle schoolers can be brutal but that’s just dark.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He picked on other kids, so it wasn’t surprising, but he went out of his way to bother a few of us. It never escalated to anything beyond shoving and name-calling, but it still messed with me. Especially because I, ah…” Sonny crosses his arms and leans on the desk, smiling wistfully at the next memory. “I had a crush on this boy on our team, Danny Marinetti. He was an outfielder, easily the fastest player on the team, and his family was all Yankees fans.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The ultimate betrayal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny laughs—which, he suspects, might have been Rafael’s goal. His eyes light up at the sound and the slight ease of tension in his words. “Yeah, I think my parents would have been pissed at that more than me being into a boy. It was just like any crush—I thought he was the perfect guy, I always got shy around him. I did what I could to get close to him. Hell, I even asked him out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. I hope this doesn’t have a grim ending.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah,” Sonny shakes his head, the corners of his mouth twitching, “not entirely. He wasn’t into boys, but he was nice about it. We were still friendly with each other, and we were still teammates. And he didn’t out me either, which was nice. But I was confused. I thought I was gay, but I knew I liked girls. But if I liked boys, what did that make me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe it’s called bisexual.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny gives him an incredulous look; Rafael just winks and takes a sip of coffee. “I know that now, thank you. But it wasn’t that easy as a kid. I had to be straight and safe or I had to be gay and damned. And the more I thought about it, the more it distracted me, the more I found myself getting targeted by the bully for not paying attention. Eventually, halfway through the season, I just quit. I didn’t know anyone who had felt the way I did, and I was too afraid to ask if there was anyone and I just didn’t know it. And maybe, I told myself, if I could be around more girls, I could figure it out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael smiles wistfully. “If only it were that easy.” Sonny hums in response; Rafael reaches for his hand and shares a reassuring smile when he presses their palms together. “It says a lot about us, though. As queer folk. If you had a role model, someone who was out and proud about it in a way you could relate to, how much easier would it have been?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno,” Sonny admits, squeezing Rafael’s hand instinctively. It’s comforting to know there’s something here now, even if he didn’t have it when he was younger. “I wanna say it would be different, but…internalized homophobia runs deep. It might not have made a difference. And if it had, would I be here today?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael simpers. “You could have been running bases instead of tossing fastballs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny rolls his eyes. “I doubt it. I was always at the end of the lineup. I never made much of an impact at the plate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno, I think we’ve proven it enough times for you to pick it up again, Bat Boy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chokes on air at the nickname and the phrase. “Again with that nickname!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael just chuckles at his reaction; Sonny looks away to quell the stirring in his chest. “I’m simply taking advantage of the opportunity when I see an opening. Nothing more, nothing less.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think you’re just projecting as a closeted David Wright fan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael takes his hand away to swat at his arm. “Jerk. Those words don’t leave this office.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny raises both hands in defense. “Your secret’s safe with me. If I could count the amount of dirt you have on me…” He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “You could open your own gossip magazine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael hums and leans back in his chair, eyeing Sonny up and down. The way his eyes dart over him so quickly, so effortlessly, sends a shiver directly up his spine. “If I were more petty or even more malicious, I could. But that’s part of the job. Some secrets might not ever make it into a book, and as long as there aren’t any laws broken, I don’t mind keeping tight-lipped.” Before Sonny can extend a compliment, or at least his thanks for keeping his secrets shut away, Rafael clears his throat. “But I’m not the subject.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t mind not changing the subject. I like hearing about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael smiles, tight-lipped and lacking amusement. “I think your reasons are less than professional.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We gave up professionalism when we decided to run the bases. Some people call it sex.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And yet here we are,” his eyes move to his lips, down his throat, up to his eyes again, “discussing your reasons for retiring from baseball at the ripe old age of twelve.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny sees the change—return—in subject as a bad thing. Even though his mind itches to reach out to Rafael and ask why he doesn’t want to discuss them or what they are, he keeps his questions for another day. When they have the time to discuss the finer details. When there isn’t work still to be done for the day. When Sonny doesn’t want to spill every last fear, every last insecurity, and reveal himself to his ghostwriter-turned-who knows what. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny stands from his chair, stretching his arms over his head as he does. He walks to the window behind Rafael and looks down at the cars below. The rest of the world is so far away—so below them, scurrying to appointments or returning to work. Beyond that, Roosevelt Island bustles with activity; and beyond that, the bridges leaving to Manhattan throb with bumper-to-bumper traffic. For a second, Sonny feels part of them, just another soul wandering, floating through the air and waiting for something to cross his path. But the silence is too deafening, too expectant of someone to break the quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t play baseball again until I was fifteen years old, the summer right before my sophomore year of high school started,” Sonny says. “When I got back, I wasn’t just starting my baseball career over. I decided I wasn’t going to worry about who I was. If I was gay or bi, then I would be, but it wasn’t anything to rush into and throw a label on.” He looks down, watches the people at the crosswalk patiently waiting and bustling across gray strips of pavement. “I’m just Sonny.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you don’t think that now,” Rafael states. He joins Sonny at the window. The height difference between them is much more obvious in direct sunlight. “Forgive me if I’m reaching, but if you still thought that way, you wouldn’t be writing a book with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny hums. “I guess not. Or at least in that way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What way?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of putting my life on display? Showing other queer athletes that their feelings of attraction are valid? Helping others see that the world isn’t so black and white? Leaving baseball turned out alright for me because I wasn’t being bullied for being gay. I just so happened to get bullied during an identity crisis, and it worked for me, but I’m one person. I can be alright with never labeling myself, but there are kids out there who use those labels and look to them for inspiration. I have a platform and I can advocate for those kids. They don’t have to leave something they enjoy to realize their self-worth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the time he left baseball as a third baseman to the time he returned as a southpaw on the pitching mound, Sonny wondered if being a baseball player and liking a boy were something he could have. They both made him happy—he proved that to himself too many times to count. He shouldn’t have to choose between an aspect of his identity and a hobby. It took leaving baseball to see that; and as thankful Sonny is, nothing will change the fact that some kids don’t have that choice. Not every kid thinks it’s alright. Not every kid has a constant figure in their life giving them advice on things they have never thought of or seen before. But they should, and they deserve it as much as any other kid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know this book isn’t marketed at kids, but the press alone should be good. How often does anyone hear of a baseball player coming out of the closet to the world and ruining whatever little tidbit of a legacy he built as a professional baseball player?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael scoffs at that. “I wouldn’t call it ruining your legacy. I think you only made it better.” He looks up at Sonny with so much admiration and appreciation, he’s practically drowning in it. “You’re showing them Sonny. There’s nothing better than that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are a million ways Sonny can respond, all of them pooling on the tip of his tongue and itching at his fingers. It punches his gut and rips the air out of him right when it has him gasping for relief, drowning in nothing but Rafael. He could relish in the respect that Rafael has shown him, never once judging him, only cracking a joke to lift his spirits, listening attentively to the entire story, and never once thinking terribly of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t decide on the best way to thank him. So Sonny kisses him and falls in love instead.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Note: a home run cycle is when a batter hits four home runs in one game: a home run, a home run with one run brought in (aka one person on base), a home run with two runs brought in, and a grand slam (a home run when the bases are loaded). So Rafael saying that Sonny can hit a home run cycle with his dick is.,.,.,,.well you get the idea ;)</p>
<p>Also fun fact: a home run cycle has never been done by a Major League team; the only baseball player who's done it in terms of professional play was a player in an Arkansas minor league team in '98; it's been recorded less than a handful of times in college baseball; and it was done once in (college) softball until last February when a player for the Arkansas Razorbacks hit a home run cycle in four innings, which is the quickest it's been done and honestly it's really super cool</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Sixth Inning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some more sex in here, some more Barisi being really into each other, but hey—now they're a thing so they can do whatever</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>T6</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sonny opens his front door to find Rafael Barba standing in the corridor, bundled up to ward off the cold, hair blown from gusts of winter wind and dotted with melting droplets of snow. Their next writing session isn’t scheduled for another two days, so seeing his ghostwriter unannounced is a bit confusing. Sonny hadn’t received any messages or missed calls; and since they reside in separate boroughs, finding him outside his front door is more than a little bizarre.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Rafael says, smiling nervously, arms crossed and clutching his biceps tightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Sonny greets him. “You just out and about in Queens?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I needed a walk. Writer’s block,” he adds, pointing to his temple. Sonny watches a small droplet melt down his nose. “I got caught on a few lines so I’m clearing my head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny snorts and leans against the doorframe; he doesn’t believe any of that for a second. Rafael doesn’t drive, and he knows the roads are not in the best condition even with the attempts to tidy away the snow. There’s absolutely no reason for him to be out when Sonny can name on both hands much more efficient ways to manage his writer’s block. “And you came all the way from Chelsea to see me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not you, specifically.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’re here, and I’m out, so I figured I would stop by.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In shitty winter weather? In an entirely different borough? Over a bridge that can go out of service at any second?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael’s responding scoff is the first form of proof that whatever his motive for coming here, it hasn’t become entirely clear yet. Sonny almost calls him out on it but holds back; he’ll wait to hear it on Rafael’s own terms and in his own words. “Are you implying something, bat boy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny shrugs. “Should I be?” He considers Rafael not responding and deliberately looking away a small victory. He lets loose a wide grin and steps aside, waving Rafael inside. Rafael hesitates before stepping in, unbuttoning his coat but keeping it on. He eyes Sonny like he expects him to jump out at any second and terrify him. “You want some coffee? I was about to make an extra batch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael nods and follows him into the kitchen area. He didn’t trust Keurigs, but Sonny’s appraisal of the convenience and benefits of it has gotten him to warm up to the machines. Sonny pops in a pod and pulls out two mugs from his cabinet. He focuses on the coffee instead of the cracks of concern on Rafael’s face. He needs to wait to hear his real reason for leaving, not force the answer out of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take your coat off,” Sonny insists. “Unless you’re thinking about dining and dashing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And commit fraud in front of a lawyer?” Rafael scoffs, shrugging his coat off and draping it over one of the chairs in front of the kitchen island. The sweater he’s wearing is deep magenta, a shade Sonny can only see Rafael pulling off so well. But it’s not the typical sweater he dons over a collared shirt and suspenders. It’s almost casual if the material didn’t look so expensive. “You must take me for an idiot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny laughs and slides the first mug over to Rafael, along with the bottle of salted caramel creamer he knows Rafael adores. He pretends not to see the spark of amusement that lights up in his eyes when he sees it. “Me, think that of you? Never!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re trying to give me mixed signals,” Rafael taunts lightly, voice airy and a touch more relaxed than when he entered the apartment, “you’re succeeding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny grabs a bowl from the same cupboard and pours pretzels into it. He presents it to Rafael and leans against the counter while the Keurig brews behind him. “So, how bad’s the writer’s block? Anything I can do to help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael hums, savoring in the taste of his coffee before he speaks. “Perhaps. It is your life I’m writing, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Lay it on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For whatever reason, Rafael is still wary of him in this instance—Sonny can tell from the way he looks him up and down and the way his hands clench around the mug. But it must not be intense enough to keep him from speaking. Or he’s using a bit more liquid courage than Sonny realizes. “I’ve been mulling over what you told me in my office. Mostly about why you left baseball as a kid and why you were so hesitant to be yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a silent question in there that might be too risky to ask; Sonny simply reads between the lines and takes the leap of faith by answering the unsaid inquiry. “You can ask anything you want. I don’t have anything planned for the day.” He truly didn’t—Nick had to cancel their lunch date for a family emergency, nothing fatal but still requiring his presence, and the Carisi sisters were still discussing what to give their parents for their upcoming wedding anniversary. Helping Rafael wasn’t on the agenda, but Sonny has no problem putting it on there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael simply nods and grabs a handful of pretzels to spread out on a napkin in front of him. He toys with a half-broken one, keeping his eyes down and trained on the mug of coffee. “You once said in an interview that baseball was something you were good at and you never expected your career to go as far as it did. When you returned to it, what did you think was going to happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny was a sophomore in high school when he earned a spot on the baseball team as a left-handed pitcher. He had tried as hard as any high school student had, balancing homework and deciding whether to enroll in honors courses or not. He won games, he lost games, and he went to bed at the end of the day and did it all over again. The fact that scouts were looking at him at all was inspiring, but to hear that they were impressed was a shock. Baseball had always been a hobby he loved. He just so happened to make money for being a left-handed reliever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had learned it was possible to have multiple identities to his name; he could be the good Catholic boy who went to church on Sundays and knew the hymns by heart. At the same time, he was the proud queer kid whose sisters would go on to protect him at his first pride parade and whose parents denounced anyone who dared discredit his identity in the name of the Lord. And he ended up as a southpaw reliever who could time his pitches to psych out hitters and knew how to throw a mean slider. They did not have to cancel each other out. When put together, the different components formed one person who was simultaneously unique and no different from any other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny finds the words he wants to use and speaks up. “I didn’t have a plan for it. I went back to it because it made me happy. It was fun, it was competitive—it helped that I was good at it, but it was never about being good enough to go pro. I just wanted to be myself. And baseball is part of who I am. It always has—long before I became a Mets pitcher.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you satisfied with all of that?” Rafael asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sony muses on it for a second before nodding. “Yeah, I am. I’ve spent so much time with baseball, when I look back, I know I’ve done everything I wanted with it. It’s a good time to move on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael smirks at that. “I guess this is a good example for younger generations on why you finish college. You always have something to fall back on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny laughs. He picks up his finished mug of coffee and comes to sit beside Rafael. “I get why some kids leave college early to go pro, but it won’t last forever. Our bodies can only handle so much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The head tilt Rafael provides makes his heart clench and trip over itself. Sonny is convinced this man doesn’t realize how damn attractive—how endearing—he’s being. “For someone who likes living in the moment, you really enjoy looking at the future.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “You gotta be prepared.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael stares at him for a moment. It feels like years pass them as blazing green eyes trace over his outline and his body and every last detail they can gather in such a short amount of time. Sonny shifts a bit when his eyes linger a bit too long on his face—he swears he sees Rafael’s tongue flick out over his lips. Is he doing that on purpose? “You’re quite the man, aren’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny’s cheeks burn up at the remark. “It’s not like I’m doing shit no one else would do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you are. You know what you want and you speak your mind. There are grown men who can’t do that, let alone a person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny looks at him. Rafael is staring at him with such intensity, such ardor, he blinks to make sure he hasn’t hallucinated it. His eyes flick over Rafael’s lips for a brief second before settling on the pair of sharp green eyes boring into him. “You really think that highly of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael smirks and takes a sip of coffee. “I wouldn’t say it falls in the ‘highly’ category, but it applies to you, sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do all your clients get that treatment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoffs. “I haven’t fucked my clients before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny swallows roughly at the statement and the knowing glint that flashes in his eyes. His bluntness is just as sharp as his skill with words. “Well, I’m glad to be your first, pen boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael snorts at that and rolls his eyes in a mild bout of affection. “You really do have a way with words. Maybe you should have written the book yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I probably would have found some way to fuck it up. I don’t have a good track record with those things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That longing stare, the one that feels like years stretching on, returns. Sonny is drawn to it, captivated by the deep centers of Rafael’s eyes, swirling with dusky shades of olive. He wants to ask about his true intentions of being here, to try and understand why a snowy Monday was a good time to go out of his way to see him. But he just ends up swimming deeper down, submerging himself in the calming energy Rafael emits and the warmth radiating between them. He nearly misses the soft murmur of Rafael’s voice; “Do you really think that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean,” Sonny hesitates but chooses his words carefully, “I’m not trying to take a dig at myself, but if I’m not a baseball player, I don’t have a lot more for me. Maybe I have my law degree. But I don’t have any experience writing something like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael hums at that, fiddling with his cup of coffee and toying with the edge of the napkin tucked under the mug. He waits before adding, “Even so, you strike me as the type of person who would believe that anyone could do something if they truly wanted to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny shrugs. “I am. But for me, it’s not that simple, y’know? I’ve always been shit at explaining how I feel. And that’s all writing is, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not necessarily. Not for me, at least. Most of the time, I’m not writing for myself. I’m barely included in the books I write.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny looks over at Rafael to gauge what he’s feeling. Normally, he’s guarded so thoroughly that his real feelings go unnoticed. But the barriers are lowered now, and Sonny can see how raw he feels, how torn his emotions are, the amount of regret that’s brewing in the center of his chest. Sonny wants to question all of it and try to mend whatever he can get his hands on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you talked about quitting baseball for three years,” Rafael says, his voice low, “it reminded me of this boy who thought the world would hate him if they knew who he was. Who learned very quickly that the adult world would not accept him if his ideas were unrealistic. He wanted to help people like his mom who had to come home from being yelled at by students’ parents to be yelled at by her husband, or the three-legged dog who always wound up at the bodega begging its customers for food.” Rafael bows his head, voice slipping even lower. “He never got the chance to dream.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny starts to respond but the words get caught in his throat and he swallows them away. Rafael looks up at him, and his eyes lighten up, the dimness vanishing as they make eye contact. Sonny’s heart pangs at how much smaller he appears. Rafael is shorter than him, but he doesn’t present himself like he is. “I admire you, Sonny. You took the time to search for yourself, and you found it, and you held on. You didn’t let this world beat you down and keep you there. The world needs people like you to see that they can make it to the next day. However you do it, there will be someone there to listen to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rafael…” Sonny shakes his head and starts over. “This memoir is the first time I’ve cared if someone sees what I’m doing. I was offered a starting position as a pitcher, but I stayed as a reliever because I didn’t see why I would have to go beyond when I was doing good. Getting chosen to play for the Mets was a dream come true, but I went into the MLB draft just to see if I would get picked. And I went back to baseball because I loved it too much to let go. Even as a dumb teenager, I knew I had to do things for myself. If I had seen that before I left for three years, I might have taken a different path. But there’s no one to speak for people like me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael eyes him with disbelief. “A former Mets reliever?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As a human being. As Sonny Carisi. As the guy who wants to live his life with whoever he wants as his partner. As the kid who, at the end of the day, believed the bullies who told him he would never amount to anything but still ended up proving that it is never too late to prove them wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael grabs his chin and leans in to kiss him. Sonny’s thoughts are wiped clean with the contact of thin lips molding softly over his. He reaches up to hold his cheek, enjoying the shift towards his palm. Rafael’s beard is coarse under his fingers, thicker at the curve of his jaw; Sonny ghosts his fingers over it to grab the hair at the back of his head and hold him close. To think they could get so close, to think they have the potential, stirs a deep yearning from inside him. Sonny could have only wished for this as a kid. Having it under his fingers, right in front of him, is surreal to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Rafael leans back, Sonny whines and moves forward to steal more kisses. Rafael chuckles, hot puffs of air against his lips, and grabs his shoulder to hold him back. “That was uncalled for, on my part,” he says, “and I apologize for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need,” Sonny shakes his head. “I like kissing you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I…” Rafael lets out a long sigh and sits up, hands dropping and folding into his lap. There’s a crease in his brow that Sonny wants to kiss away, just soothe it with a few pecks and a nuzzle. “I need to be honest with you before we do anything else. I don’t want to deceive you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Deceive me? Of what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael takes a deep breath before he speaks. “What would you call the intimate part of our relationship? The kissing, the sex, the nights we spend after work just talking and drinking. I’ve gone through so many names to try and label it, but there’s only one thing I could think of and I personally don’t want to put a name on us until I know where you stand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny thinks about it, as much as he can in a suddenly short amount of time, but he doubts he would have found an answer even if he did have a plan. Over the past few months—how many has it been at this point? He’s lost count—he and Rafael have evolved from a level of acquaintances meeting just for work to an intimacy that reminds Sonny of Bella and Tommy. If only because two people so different from one another can make such a nice pair when they come together as one partnership, it stuns him to silence. He would be lying if he told Rafael he hadn’t put much thought into it because he had. But only when Rafael looked at him that, from an outsider’s perspective, would be viewed as a romantic partner admiring his significant other. It sent chills up and down Sonny’s spine enough times to make him wonder what they could be if they talked things through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now, it seems that time has come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Sonny admits. “I mean, a lot of people would call it two boyfriends interacting, but I think we’re well past that.” A small smirk flicks up on his lips momentarily when he remembers what Rafael had once said to him. “We’ve run enough bases to call this whatever we want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael smiles—a small, content smile that is still nervous but radiates relief. “So we should carry through with this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny kisses him as his response. It’s already so familiar, but to think he could do this whenever he wanted is infinitely better than that. And Rafael’s quick reciprocation, the hand on his jaw and the satisfied hums that fill the space between them, is enough of a confirmation that those feelings are mutual. For a few seconds, they can slip into their own reality, where the only important figures are each other and they can spend as much time with one another as they like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know where this will go,” Rafael gasps once they pull back for air. Sonny snakes his arms around Rafael’s waist and squeezes, the movement flowing so well into a cohesive image of security. As if it was supposed to happen like this, seamless and smooth. “I don’t think it’s very professional to date your ghostwriter. But wherever it goes, I never want it to end.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither do I,” Sonny sighs. He pecks Rafael’s lips. “Fuck the book.” His cheek. “I want you long after that.” His forehead. “However you’ll have me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sound rumbles deep from Rafael’s chest and then the older man is hauling him up and dragging him to the bedroom. Sonny reaches out when they reach the hallway leading to the bedroom, and they tumble against the wall. Rafael yanks him down and suckles on his lower lip while Sonny lets his hands explore every inch of Rafael’s chest. There are too many layers blocking their way. He can only feel the outline of his body, the soft curve to his belly, the firm build of his arms, the dark hair he has seen so many times before but knows exists. Sonny feels Rafael everywhere: hands climbing up his back, lips claiming every breath and gasp and moan, his heart thrashing against his ribcage. Whatever they may be, they mesh well together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As hurried as the moments leading up to the bedroom are, tossing clothes aside and scrambling for the half-empty bottle of lube and a condom, the sex is slowed down for them to enjoy. Rafael thrusts deep inside Sonny and spreads his legs each time he bottoms out. He had laughed when Sonny dragged him on top and practically pleaded for Rafael to slip inside him already, just dive right in and stretch him wide. But Rafael convinced him that prepping him would allow them more opportunities to look at each other and to relish in the attention and mutual affection. And honestly, after Sonny watched Rafael hover over his leaking dick and tease the tip with swipes of his tongue while his hands swapped between cradling his balls and stretching him open, it was entirely worth it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny fumbles for balance as Rafael rolls his hips out and teases the tip of his dick against Sonny’s hole. He ends up tugging Rafael down so that he can hold him flush to his chest and claw at his back. Rafael grunts at the pressure and encourages him to press closer to him, nuzzled into his neck and gripping his hips tighter when he bottoms out. As brief as the moment is, the teasing motive is still noticeable and Sonny reaches down to claw and pinch Rafael’s ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Sonny moans into his ear. Rafael buries his nose against his pulse as a response. “Fuck me, fuck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m doing the best I can,” Rafael grunts. His voice shines with a smirk that Sonny wishes he could see if Rafael found a way to still stay against his neck. “Someone can’t decide what he wants. I have so many requests to fulfill.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe if you did a better job of fulfilling them, we wouldn’t have a problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t mean that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny shakes his head when Rafael grabs him by the dick and squeezes, two fingers stretched out just enough to tease his balls. “I don’t. Ah, shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael hovers over his pulse and gently drags his hand up—tugging his scrotum, squeezing the base, and sliding up the length of his cock until he stops at the tip. Sonny’s heart rams against his chest. “Can I mark up your neck?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean you haven’t been doing that already?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I always ask for permission. You should know this.” Rafael’s biting starts small, just a simple pressure of his incisors against his skin. He always presses a kiss to the area whenever he moves back to admire the work he’s done or to whisper something that distracts them from what he should be doing. “All this time, I thought this wasn’t anything more than two people physically attracted to one another. But I’m fond of you, Sonny.” Sonny swallows when Rafael’s thrust pierces right along the boundary of his prostate. Just a bit more to the right and he could relish in that mind-numbing pleasure. “We’ve come a long way.” Rafael tilts his head and sucks at his neck, right above his pulse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this point in their intimate relationship, Sonny is used to Rafael’s ramblings—because that’s the best description for them—in the middle of sex. Rafael knows how to use his mouth when he’s just speaking, but when he’s having sex, his mouth runs on autopilot. Sonny is noisy in the way that he can’t stop moaning or sighing at every shifting movement. But Rafael is vocal. He tried to play it off the first time it happened, but Sonny was so enamored by it, the explanations have gradually vanished from their post-climax chats. Now, Rafael just meekly gets away with not mentioning it and Sonny just becomes more smitten by him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael breathes hot on his neck, right over the spot he had sucked, before he bites down. Sonny arches above the bed, eyes screwed shut, and digs his fingers into Rafael’s back. The nip is accompanied by a thrust forward, Rafael’s dick scraping against his walls as he resumes his pace. Sonny squeezes his legs tighter around his hips at the mounting pressure in his gut. The combination of Rafael’s love bite being sucked onto his neck and the steady pump of his hips bring him just a little bit closer to climax. Add in the massage Rafael applies to his balls and the base of his dick, and he may as well be blinded by it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” Rafael muses, “thinking back on this and keeping up with our metaphor, we might have run the bases out of order. But I prefer it like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny chuckles, hoarse but audible. “Baseball references? Who’s the ‘bat boy’ now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still you, since you’re taking everything I’m throwing at you.” Rafael digs in further, both with his teeth and tongue and his dick, and Sonny yells as his hand travels up his length and squeezes at the head. After slow thrusts and precise words, the direct hit to his prostate helps tip him over the edge. Sonny’s toes curl at the sensation, shivering at the waves of overstimulation already crowding his senses. He melts into the bedding underneath him when Rafael thrusts a few more times into him and comes with a stuttered moan, Sonny’s name on his lips and a kiss to follow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>B6</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s after a brunch date at a nearby cafe in mid-December and at Rafael’s insistence that he finds time to get at least some work done that Sonny ends up sprawled out on Rafael’s couch and takes a nap. With his stomach full of a hearty meal and his body warm from the small contacts Rafael kept supplying to his hands and back and face, it’s nearly impossible to stay awake. Sonny falls into slumber with his legs stretched over to Rafael’s lap, snug between his abdomen and the laptop he’s typing on. They’ve maintained an easy routine over the past two weeks between what they’ve come to accept as dating and the professional relationship they have to maintain. Rafael is a little over halfway through with writing Sonny’s memoir. Sonny has scarcely looked at it, mostly at Rafael’s insistence than anything else. He wants him to see it in its completed form.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny is roused awake slowly and stretches his legs out before resettling on the couch. He nuzzles into the pillow tucked under his head and simply listens to the sounds in the apartment: the soft buzz of the heat warming them from the chill in the winter air, the cars beneath the apartment cruising along, the clicks of the laptop keyboard and the clacks of Rafael’s furious typing. It’s a scene perfectly carved from dreams of domesticity, and Sonny is too fascinated with its mere existence to wish he had known about this sooner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael is a skilled writer, best read in the syntax he crafts or the words utilized, but the way he physically writes is a sight on its own. It’s all a dance to him, graceful sways of his hand that moves too fast to decipher what he’s typing, made believable by the focused gaze he trains on the screen. He doesn’t need glasses to see but he wears a pair to protect his eyes when he’s writing if he stares for too long at the screen. The style of the frames and his beard, recently trimmed, emphasize a look meant for a college professor, all the more obvious with the jumper he wears over the sea-green button-down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny smiles and observes Rafael, admiration filling his whole chest at the thought of having more Sundays like this. Him going to church and meeting Rafael afterward in a quaint cafe, playing footsie under the table, flirting with their eyes but holding a conversation about this book or that person. They already did it today; what’s another Sunday to make it a full routine?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael looks over at him and smiles. Sonny’s heart bursts at the sight, yearning flooding his lungs and taking his breath away. “Hi,” Rafael greets, reaching over to run a hand through Sonny’s hair. Without any product to mold it or a hat to throw over it, the front curls over his forehead and the rest stick up in wayward strands. “How was your nap?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice.” Sonny sits up and scoots over so he can kiss his cheek and rest his head on Rafael’s shoulder. “Missed you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael chuckles softly, shutting his laptop to hide the story. “Aren’t you sweet. I was here the whole time.” He pauses to press a soft peck at his temple. “Even if I wanted to move.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny smirks and wiggles closer to him, throwing a hand over Rafael for good measure. “I wonder why.” He pokes his thigh with a socked foot for good measure. “Couldn’t be because there was a very handsome boyfriend in your lap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just any old boyfriend? You know I have so many lying around.” Rafael laughs when Sonny huffs and squeezes his waist. He’s a few seconds away from depositing his whole body into Rafael’s lap. “I finished another chapter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny’s eyes light up at the information. “Good! You should be in my Mets days by now, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael nods. He holds Sonny close by the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. Sonny shuts his eyes at the motion. “I got there a few days ago. We’re up on your relieving-for-Mike days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has he been as helpful as I said he would?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By helpful, you mean he told me many stories that I can use as cannon fodder the next time you’re causing trouble.” He makes a surprised noise when Sonny pinches his side in retaliation. “They’re all flattering! Mike had nothing but good things to say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pff. I’m sure he did. Make sure you add the part where he walked into the dugout on a rainy game day and fell right on his ass. He got a new white uniform because of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael’s voice carries the same twinkle of amusement that his eyes reflect. “I’ll make a note.” His eyes drift down, zeroing in on something below his chin, and he frowns. Sonny watches as he gently grabs his chin and tilts his head. He stays silent while Rafael stares at his neck, waiting for an explanation rather than asking for one. “Huh. That hickey I left on your neck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny smiles. “Which time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When we decided to date. Some of it is still there.” His fingers ghost over the spot, just a gentle brush across the spot. Sonny shivers when Rafael looks up at him, eyes darkened with lust, and his cock twitches between his legs. Straddling his lap is sounding like a better idea by the second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a nice reminder.” Sonny raises his hand instinctively to prod at the mark himself. He used to see it in his reflection, mostly when he was getting out of the shower, sometimes in the mornings when he got dressed and didn’t have anything on to hide it, just below his clavicle but noticeable once he was shirtless. It had started to fade after a few days, but the remnants of Rafael’s teeth had remained imprinted for a bit longer. Every time Sonny saw or touched the mark, even when it was all but gone, he returned to that moment and relished in the memories. Nowadays, he spends more time staring at the spot where it used to be, a mild trick for his eyes to try and reimagine it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael’s eyes flicker down again but remain on his lips. “Can I kiss you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny, blushing at the thought as excitement bursts in his chest, smirks. “Only if I can kiss you back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael rolls his eyes playfully and leans forward. “You’re a dork.” His kiss is gentle, lips tender and careful over his, pouring out buckets of emotion with each soft sigh uttered. Sonny practically melts into it and turns so he can properly lean into the kiss. Rafael tastes like coffee and the remnants of something salty, pretzels or peanuts of some kind, and he smells like warm books kept on looming shelves. Sonny has never wanted to envelop himself more in a sensation than now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael chuckles against his mouth when he nibbles on his lip, and he grabs Sonny’s hips for leverage. Sonny slides his leg over him much too easily, too natural, but it bears a strong resemblance to everything else they’ve done. Everything feels like it’s supposed to happen—their working together, evolving into a friendship, now turning into a sort of companionship that neither is rushing to describe as boyfriends nor denying the thought. They have set a pace that is all their own and allows them to develop on their terms. Whatever they may be, as long as it is happy, they don’t have to label it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I still have to write,” Rafael says, though not without a forlorn sigh and a slow drag of his hand up Sonny’s back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny frowns and swivels his hips. His crotch collides with Rafael and they both hiss from the contact, Rafael’s eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. “Do you though?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm. I may be a co-founder, but I still follow Cunei deadlines like any other writer.” Rafael reaches around to grab his ass. Sonny groans when he digs his fingers into his cheeks and alternates between squeezing and pulling them apart. If he was asked to strip, he could have his clothes off in under ten seconds. “Need to write.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you do,” Sonny pants, clawing at Rafael’s shoulders as he grinds again, this time bringing his entire body forward with the motion, “I’ll have to leave.” Another shiver cascades down his back as Rafael’s eyes darken and his pupils widen. “And I dunno ‘bout you, but I don’t have any plans to get off unless you want me to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck no.” Rafael arches up to capture his mouth, tongues tangling together. The moan he lets out comes from deep within his chest and swirls between them, enhancing the aroma of sweat and lust lingering around them. “I don’t want you gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Sonny moves his hips again, a downward grind that all but outlines his asshole against Rafael’s dick, and he swears the other man sees stars. His eyes nearly cross at the force Sonny applies. “Because I have plans.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael leans back into the couch and curves upward to kiss him again. Sonny teases him by raising himself up, hovering over his crotch and pressing his knees into the couch, and lingering just out of reach. The hands on his ass clench and tug him closer, nearly colliding his clavicle with his chin. “Are you gonna tell me what they are, or are you gonna keep it a secret?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I dunno. I haven’t decided yet.” Sonny holds onto Rafael’s shoulders so he can rebalance himself and dips his hips just enough to taunt him. Rafael’s hands squeeze harder on his ass. “But I don’t see why I’d have to explain myself.” He uses the amount of high ground he has over Rafael to give him a playful smirk. “You probably have an idea of what I wanna do anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t surprised to find a rather bothered expression flash over Rafael’s face, but it fills Sonny with an impish sort of satisfaction to know his teasing was successful. Especially when he leans forward and connects with his chest but still stays above his hips. The hands on his ass haven’t let up, but they’re kneading now, rubbing his cheeks together through his pants in slow, circular motions. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want one though. I want to hear you say the words.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny kisses him and drops into his lap slowly. He’ll wait a moment to give Rafael what he wants, if only because he wants it to make sense but also to restrain himself from pouncing and rushing the moment out. He waits until he’s fully seated, until Rafael is arching back and trying to grab as much contact from his clothed dick as he can, to squeeze his legs together and secure their positions. Sonny swivels his hips twice before grinding down hard; Rafael bucks beautifully against him and cries out, the sound swallowed instantly by his mouth. With his head thrown back and his neck bared, Sonny leans close to his ear and whispers; “I wanna grind into your lap like I never do anything else. Tease you a little, maybe see if you can come from this alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Rafael breathes out. One hand lets go of Sonny’s ass to rise up his back and curl into his shirt. “You’re lucky I’m not attached to these pants.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny chuckles and spreads his legs out so he can press their dicks together. Rafael sighs at the contact but immediately narrows his eyes at him when Sonny backs off. “You know I love riding you. Especially when we can’t get to the bedroom, so we just plop on the couch and handle it right then and there. Anything that gives you easy access to my dick.” Keeping one hand on Rafael’s shoulder, Sonny runs his hand over his neck and then slowly down his body. Rafael follows the motion, green eyes blazing with a desire to devour him. “But when you get to ride me, I can’t help but drop on my back. Your hips are powerful.” He squeezes his knees together; Rafael’s laugh is breathless and airy, just barely managing to keep himself focused. “I bet you could ride me for days and not break a sweat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanna try it?” Rafael asks, smirking up at him, eyes shining with the willingness to try it out. He kisses him but breaks them apart to accent his point between soft pecks. “I’m feeling motivated.” Kiss. Sonny’s tongue slips out; the hand Rafael had curled in his shirt now tugs through his hair and flexes, just letting the strands flow between his fingers. “And you know,” kiss, peck, they nearly miss their mark, “I’d never back down from,” Rafael chuckles at Sonny’s trail of kisses that have quickly evolved into open-mouth drags of his tongue down his jaw and neck, “from a challenge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny wants to reach down and free himself, relieve some of the pressure pushing against his zipper, but he doesn’t want to let go of Rafael for a second. He diverts his attention to the hand still clawing at his ass that helps push their hips together and the other holding the back of his neck to keep him close. The want radiates off of Rafael in giant waves, brushing over Sonny more and more and pulling him in. His hips, which have been steadily grinding against Rafael, stutter against him when it hits him how far they’ve come. They started out at the end of August—well before his last day at Citi Field—as a ghostwriter and a southpaw, two separate professions come together for a single purpose that would end when the ghostwriter was finished writing. But as the months since then have progressed, and the closer they get to the end of the year, they’ve come to accept that there is something more between them than their careers. It served as the catalyst when they needed it, but they don’t need it to sustain their relationship. Sonny is sure of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t remember coming in his pants. He barely recalls Rafael shivering beneath him, his mouth already running and rambling off the whirling emotions going through him. Sonny, unable to take in anything beyond that, kisses him and sags into his arms, satisfied and thankful that they could do this without the concern of what it meant. He didn’t have to question their relationship any longer. And the relief that flows through him is only overshadowed by the affection Sonny has for Rafael.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny stretches back out on the couch and takes Rafael with him, guiding him with his legs and arms as he drops back down. His legs have to do a bit of rearranging to make room, and Rafael squawks when he goes from upright to laid out on Sonny’s chest, but he recovers with a quiet huff and an affectionate smile. Sonny nuzzles into his chest and yawns, sleep already tugging at the corners of his eyes again. They could take a shower later; cuddling sounds like a better idea and much more appealing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael shifts his legs so that they’re once again between Sonny’s but settles against him, his arms coming to wrap around Sonny tightly. The firmness of the hold and the taut embrace of his arms reminds Sonny of a koala. “I have more to write,” he reminds him, tender in his voice but mildly teasing in his tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Sonny sighs. “But what’s more important, cuddling with me or working?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. I’d have to hear both arguments.” He squeezes around Sonny’s middle with a coy smile. “But so far, your defense is very compelling. Especially,” he gently pecks the side of his neck, “when you look at me like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonny tilts his head in a silent question; the reference is lost on him. “Like what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like I’m the only person worthy of your attention.” Sonny’s heart swells as Rafael swoops in to kiss him again, and he pushes back with just as much earnestness and just as much wanton desire. To think he can hold so much love and care for this man, as if he’s never realized he can hold so much emotion before, he wants to feel that every day if he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you thought,” Sonny muses in a low voice, “that it’s because you are?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rafael’s smile is small but is so obviously caring, so clearly smitten with him, Sonny can only kiss his cheek and nuzzle his nose against each spot he pecks. He wants to hear the words, savor them for later, replay them until it’s the only thing he hears, drown in the phrase. He wants to record it so he can play it again, to erase the moment from his memory so he can relive it, to only ever look at Rafael that way so he can get his response. “I have. And I don’t think I can see anything else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Sonny falls even more in love with Rafael.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sonny coming in his pants: a throwback to one of the first smut pieces I wrote for Barisi</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Seventh Inning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I was gonna post this on Saturday but I got caught up with ~gaming~ and I didn't realize until nighttime that I had missed it (that's what happens when you're a ~gamer~)<br/>But it works bc today is Monday and we can get back to the good shit!</p>
<p>Some references to baseball: this chapter has three breaks for the seventh inning stretch with a surprise perspective; a slider is a pitch that's thrown with the speed of a fastball and the curve of a curveball and is pretty sick ngl<br/>Some SVU references: Cyrus Lupo and Ed Green are from the original Law and Order, played by Jeremy Sisto and Jesse L. Martin respectively (and the latter has an extra reference oooo); I used <a href="https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EjmNQovXsAMlYgU?format=png&amp;name=small">this picture</a> of Andy and Peter on set for the photo Mike and Sonny took ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>T7</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So, how do you feel about getting back into uniform on opening day?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny cocks a brow at that as Amanda saunters into his apartment, handing off a coffee and a small pastry box when she passes. Friday was the only day that week Amanda could meet with him; Sonny had no complaints when it gave him more time to spend with Rafael. He made them lunch when he was working from home, and when Rafael got to writing and didn’t need any distractions, he took some time for himself or caught up with Mike, whether it be for a quick bite to eat or a workout at the gym a few blocks away from his apartment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’re you asking?” Sonny wonders, taking a sip of coffee. The label says it’s from his typical place in Queens, which means Amanda is trying to win him over for something. Typically, she brings coffee from her neighborhood, and even if she claims the difference isn’t there, they both know there is a clear divide between the tastes. Call it the difference between boroughs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s say it’s opening day in Citi Field,” Amanda says, “and you show up to throw the opening pitch. Just to start off the season, a bit of morale boost to the pitchers. Maybe a pep talk to the reliever fresh out of Kingsport.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny scoffs at the last suggestion. “Ah, I get it. A PR shoot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not what I said.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t have to.” The gaze Amanda fixed on him was more than enough to confirm his suspicions. His book would be prepared for a summer release if Rafael’s scheduled writing periods and the edits from Rita continue on time. By the time the regular season begins for the Mets in April and they have their first home game, it would be an ideal time to promote his book to fans. (Although he doubts it would make any difference to them.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda lets out a long sigh and joins him at the round table in his kitchen. “Look, Cragen offered it to me. I think it sounds like a good idea.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think a home crowd at Citi Field is gonna care that a recently retired relief pitcher is throwing the pitch because he has a memoir coming out and it’s a good time to promote it?” Sonny opens the pastry box and tears off a piece of the croissant sitting beside the raspberry danish. It’s still warm and flaky, and he savors the bite before he continues. “Let’s say they get over 30k seated. You got people chugging beers, you got parents trying to wrangle their kids, you got the folks who are just getting seated or waiting in line for food. And all anyone will want is to have me throw the first pitch and get the pregame moving along.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I get it, it doesn’t seem necessary,” Amanda nods, and he believes her. She looks sincere enough that he can trust she already considered how he would react. “At the same time, let’s say any of those fans wanna know what you’re doing. So they either pay attention or they look it up for themselves. Or they can do both. Either way, they see a fan-favorite and you get over thirty thousand people interested in your book.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Our book,” he reminds her. “Rafael’s name is on the front.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda ignores that tidbit and continues. “Are you at least interested in throwing the first pitch?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny mulls it over for a moment. Throwing the ceremonial first pitch of a baseball game had always been a fun event to witness as both a fan and a player, but he never had the chance to throw one himself. The appeal of it was there at least. Maybe he could get Mike to join him. Maybe Rafael could go with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Speaking of, Sonny checks his phone for the time—9 AM. Rafael had worked tirelessly for a good portion of the previous evening. Sonny had barely managed to get him to eat dinner, dragging his laptop out from under his hands and replacing it with a pair of reusable chopsticks and homemade stir fry and noodles. Last night concluded with them simply holding each other, Rafael hugging Sonny like a koala gripping a tree, Sonny tangling their legs under the sheets. He had made a promise then that he would let Rafael sleep in as much as he could. He could do with an extra half-hour or so of sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It still sounds like a cheap move to me,” Sonny states. “Have you reached out to Mike about doing it with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda hums past her cup of coffee. “That’s an idea. I’ll pass it by his publicist, see what he says.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Van Buren likes me. There’s no way she’ll say no.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smirks at that as she pulls out her phone. “You wanna bet on it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny chuckles and shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t wanna embarrass you.” Amanda kicks him under the table for good measure; he laughs it off and stretches his legs out. “Did you hear what Nick’s doing by the way?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I caught some details the other day, but not the full story.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s organizing a charity game to bring awareness to certain social issues. It’s all volunteer-based, anyone can pitch in and help. The earnings are gonna be split between the ACLU and Joyful Heart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda pauses her frantic typing to think about it; Sonny can almost see the gears turning in her head and the green light of approval going off in return. “It should be doable with your schedule. I’ll touch base with Trevor Langan and see what he thinks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know Nick hasn’t started a lot of organizing just yet, but I think it could be something fun.” He smirks past a bite of croissant and sits up. “We could make it a rivalry get-together sorta thing. Y’know, Yankees and Mets putting aside our differences for a good cause. Nick loves to try and prove the Yankees are better anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny realizes, suddenly, that Amanda is no longer looking at him. She is instead focused on one Rafael Barba, wearing nothing but Sonny’s t-shirt, long enough to end right below his stomach but not enough to cover him up. Amanda’s face is beet-red; Sonny can’t figure out if it’s from anger, embarrassment, or both. Rafael only seems mildly surprised at the extra person in the room. He looks over at Sonny, spots the cup of coffee, and lets out a soft sigh. “Well,” Rafael says, “I guess this needs a bit of an explanation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so,” Amanda huffs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should be wearing pants for this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re already here, aren’t you?” She glowers at Sonny as Rafael sighs and strolls across the room to prepare himself a mug of coffee from the Keurig. Sonny keeps his eyes trained on the croissant that he finds an immediate and intense interest in, hoping his face doesn’t look as hot as it feels. “You’re sleeping with your ghostwriter?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d call it ‘dating,’” Rafael says, his grip on the fridge door tight while he grabs his creamer. “We aren’t exclusive to fucking. I enjoy a good meal now and then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda scoffs and leans back in her chair. “That’s what you wanna highlight?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael shrugs, his eyes trained on his mug as he selects his portion size. “You wanted to highlight the fact that we have sex because I’m wearing your client’s shirt and am naked from the waist down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda turns to Sonny and leans across the table. The displeasure is clear in her eyes, but for what, Sonny can only guess. “I’m happy you found someone, but you couldn’t at least wait until </span>
  <em>
    <span>after</span>
  </em>
  <span> the book was published?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do you care?” Sonny asks, trying not to sound too bitter but also not enjoying her tone. She hadn’t commented on his dating life before, regardless of what was included, and he despised the fact that she was going to start now. “There’s no conflict of interest with a ghostwriter and his client. We don’t have to disclose anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, but there’s a moral implication there. Your ghostwriter is supposed to be an unbiased party. What good will he do if he’s sleeping with you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny scowls at that and leans in as well, his hand tightening into a fist. “You don’t think he can keep that up </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> go out with me? Or would it make a difference if I was dating a woman?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda’s jaw clenches. “That’s not what I meant and you know that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda drops back in her chair and crosses her arms. “Sonny, you’re releasing a book with him—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Actually,” Rafael interrupts, none-too-subtly sitting at the table with them, “you can talk to me like I’m in the room.” He reaches into the pastry box and takes a bite into the raspberry danish. Sonny bites back an amused laugh, both at Amanda’s incredulous disgust that the danish she got for herself was stolen and at the way Rafael hums and nods at the pastry. “I’m right here. Might as well address it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only acknowledgment Amanda gives him is a scalding glare that he matches in intensity. This could be a full-on battle with them if they aren’t careful; both Amanda and Rafael are forces in their own way. Amanda looks between them before she speaks again, zeroing in on Sonny. “My problem isn’t with who you’re with, and you should know that. I never said anything before and I’m not going to start now. What I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to comment on is the fact that you’re in an intimate relationship with someone you signed a contract with. In my eyes, that qualifies as an important point to bring up. It’s not enough to break the contract, sure. But you’re crossing a line and you better be sure it’s a line worth crossing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From what Sonny can recall, Amanda had been in a similar situation before. She and a partner mixed their work relationship with their private one and it didn’t end on a nice note. It explains why the tones of her and Sonny’s relationship are clear. Jokes that may land when they’re not working aren’t guaranteed success when they’re on the job. And while Sonny doesn’t appreciate the hints of projection from Amanda, he can see that her concern comes from a good place. Sonny values the personal relationships he has, and it would be a devastating blow to lose both a professional and a working one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Rafael simply isn’t that person. Sonny knows that without either of them bringing it up or asking. He can see it in Rafael’s eyes, the way he talks to him, the separation of writing and leisure. Lunches that are dates are different from their lunches for work. They made that difference on purpose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I appreciate you saying all that, I do,” Sonny says, and he means it. He ignores Rafael’s doubtful “do you though” and continues. “But that’s not what this is. This just…happened.” Sonny glances at Rafael, taking another bite of the raspberry danish, and can’t help but become enamored with him all over again. Even in a wrinkled t-shirt and a severe case of bed head that was clearly not tamed all the way, Sonny’s heart trips over itself just looking at him. “We didn’t plan any of it. We were working one day and then the next…” He hides a goofy grin by biting the inside of his cheek and bowing his head. “It was natural.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael looks over at him and Sonny melts at the soft smile he’s given in return. The tender gaze Sonny meets only adds to the mountain of proof that they are committed to one another, ghost-written memoir be damned. If their relationship is this strong now, Sonny can only imagine what it can be like after they publish the book. He hopes every day gives him the chance to fall in love with Rafael Barba all over again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny takes a glance at Amanda, and he knows instantly that she understands. Her defensive posture has gone slack, her eyes holding a fondness for the sight before her in words that she doesn’t utter. There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips, as brief as it is, just a smidge of joy that a friend found someone to be his companion through life. Sonny lets out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. At least they don’t have to fight; he doesn’t want to know what a battle between Rafael, who he knows has kicked someone’s ass before, and Amanda, who he </span>
  <em>
    <span>watched</span>
  </em>
  <span> kicked someone’s ass, could turn into.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you say so,” Amanda sighs. Her face tells a different story—she believes him, and she’s happy for him. A silent testament to the personal relationship they have, even if the professional one speaks differently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny and Amanda clear up a few more things before she’s summoned for other duties. She makes one last teasing jab at Rafael—“you owe me a raspberry danish”—before she makes her leave. Sonny walks her out so he can hug her tightly at the door. Her hands curl into his shirt, contrasting to the wavering breath she lets loose, and she tells him to call later. He doubts it’ll be for work, but he’ll wait and see when it happens.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he closes and locks the door behind his publicist, Sonny returns to the kitchen and stands in the doorway to the kitchen. Rafael is still sitting in the same spot—ass-naked, he notes—and finishing off the last of the danish. He looks up, and Sonny takes it as his cue to swoop in and kiss him breathless, hands caressing either side of his face. Rafael makes a surprised sound at the back of his throat, but he encourages the kiss almost immediately after, his own hands coming up to hold Sonny’s wrists. The contact is warm—their lips, his hands, the atmosphere around them—and Sonny drowns in it. He could take more of this and never get tired.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny moves back and smacks his lips. Rafael presses their foreheads together, huffing past an amused smile. “You taste like raspberries,” Sonny chuckles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Remind me to send Amanda an apology for eating her danish,” Rafael says, adding, “And for not wearing pants through that entire ordeal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Somehow, I think that was the least of her concerns, but I’ll make sure she knows.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still, it wasn’t appropriate. I didn’t even hear her in here with you.” He lets out a long breath, green eyes flashing with a momentary moment of panic. “If I had, I would have stayed in the bedroom until it was safe to come out. God,” his eyes dart off to the side, worry creasing his brow, “I shouldn’t have stayed out here at all. I should have just gone back into the room while you two talked. How much worse can you get when you out your boyfriend to his manager?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, slow down.” Sonny kneels in front of him to properly get his attention. “Amanda said you could stay, and she already knows I’m queer. So we took care of those worries, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael’s smile is grim and faint, one hand raising to tenderly hold Sonny’s cheek. “I still forced us to tell someone we’re together. And right after we talked about waiting until after we published your memoir to announce our new relationship.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny shrugs. “I don’t see it like that, I guess. I see that we did something we were planning on doing later rather than sooner. But I would have said everything I did today. And I’ll do it tomorrow, and the day after, until I use up every last breath.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael, his face going mildly red, laughs weakly and looks away. “Are you sure you’re a real person?” He looks at Sonny, green eyes colliding with blue, and his smile is so genuine and good, Sonny wants the image to never fade from his mind. “I still can’t believe how good you are to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny kisses him silly until his knees hurt from kneeling between his legs, and he shows Rafael just how much he stands by his words for the remainder of the morning.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>M7</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The book doesn’t have a title until the fourth chapter is written. In fact, when the book starts out, it is nothing more than one-liners detailing what each chapter will contain. Eighteen chapters are laid out and divided into four parts of Sonny’s life: his childhood and family, his baseball career, his identity, and his future. Its first real words are written in the first week of October.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The first time I picked up a baseball was in my childhood home on Staten Island. My older sisters had left it out and, being a two-year-old, my first instinct was to play with it. I threw it at the china cabinet and broke a plate and two figurines my mother had received from deceased family members. The baseball was locked away after that and forgotten for years. My parents found that baseball and gave it to me to celebrate my first game appearance as a New York Met. A small reminder of my roots, they said, of where I came from. Of what I’ve accomplished to get where I am. And of where I can go.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I asked them why my accent wasn’t enough. They refused to comment.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While the words are being bound into the book, Sonny opens himself up to Rafael. He shows his childhood, his dating background, his family, his career. He tells him about his insecurities and his fears; he laughs and cries and sighs. And through it all, Rafael’s admiration for a client’s accomplishments turn into recognition for a person’s ability to fight, no matter what may try and barricade his path. Rafael stops seeing a baseball pitcher looking for easy money after retirement and instead finds a boy from Staten Island floating through unknowns despite the success he may have found.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The Carisi family is active. We go to church, we stay late after-school for clubs and sports, we donate and speak up for others. There was always something to do. I was in kindergarten thinking about what I could do after school when I was old enough. Teresa did tap-dance and Gina flipped between soccer and debate team. It was never an option to not do anything at all. We had to do something.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I tried out for baseball in the fifth grade and joined a Little League team. I didn’t have a passion for it the same way I do now. I justified my decision by pointing to the Major League teams. My siblings and I were raised to love the Mets, just like my mom and her family fell in love with them. And we were lucky enough to watch them win the World Series in ‘86. I remember watching it and rejoicing with our neighbors who were just as into the Mets as we were. That type of belonging, in a world so much wider than I could ever hope to imagine, felt surreal to me. How could so many people be connected with one thing and yet stretch across all these boundaries just to reach one another? And why did it have to be baseball for me?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At the time, baseball was logical. It made sense that I chose it. I didn’t think I could have anything else.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t dwell on his childhood for long; Sonny specifically requests it. It’s in their first writing session together after Rafael just manages to get a rough cut of the first chapter written without Sonny’s assistance that he brings up limiting the scope.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael looks up at him from his computer, over the edge of the glasses he uses to help prevent a strain on his eyes. “I don’t think I know what you mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Y’know,” Sonny, lounging on the couch in Rafael’s office, waves his hands in the air, “keep it brief. I barely remember it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael just sighs and reads what he has down already. Sonny nods through it but doesn’t say anything. Then, with a start, he turns on his side and suggests what to focus on:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I was mindless. I went by the example of others. Which, sure, it was helpful to know what to do, especially when it’s from your older siblings. But it was too much dependence and not enough self-reliance. I didn’t let myself think about what I wanted.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I guess it’d be weird for a fifth grade to know that, huh?” Sonny frowns as Rafael finishes typing. “I mean, how many kids think like that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe it’s because you’re thinking from the adult perspective,” Rafael suggests. “Think like your kid self for a second. What future did you think about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They reach the same conclusion at the same time: </span>
  <em>
    <span>My sisters saw themselves as something. Teresa was set on being a doctor or a vet, something to help others. (She’s a guidance counselor now.) Gina didn’t think about careers, but she knew she wanted to focus on the environment. (She has a Masters in urban ecology.) When Bella wasn’t trying to be a professional chef or pirouette holes in the floorboards, she was dreaming about seeing her painting in the MoMA. (She designs graphics for the Daily News.) Every kid has a moment where they go, “When I grow up, I wanna be…”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I never had it. I waited for it to come. I tried to find it. But I couldn’t see myself being anything but Sonny. When I grew up, I wanted to be.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael can see an invisible weight ease off of Sonny’s shoulders with each retelling of his life story. By the time he has two and a half chapters down, Rafael sees that his thoughts on Sonny as a person are no longer dictated by the notes he’s taken. They’ve evolved in a way that broadens the scope of what he already sees. Sonny’s accent gets thicker the more passionate he is about something; his right dimple is deeper than the left; he perks up like a puppy when he runs into someone he knows and can chat about nothing without stopping. And then he started to pick up on Sonny’s mannerisms, little things that are only noticeable when he’s seriously looking. When there’s a devastating news story, he says a quick Hail Mary under his breath; when he checks his hair in a reflection, he’ll run a finger down the prominent shape of his nose; he’s prone to rolling over in his sleep, his limbs flying in every direction no matter where he is. He’s taken naps on a couch and almost fallen off from how much he tosses his limbs around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s no surprise they end up making out, having sex, falling hard for each other. And it’s no surprise that it leads to them dating and falling into a routine. They meet up for work on a weekday morning: Sonny helps clarify notes and Rafael writes and adds more to the memoir, passing through each chapter as the weeks roll on. Sometimes, they separate at lunch for their respective schedules, but they’ll make plans to meet up, whether it’s for dinner or a nightcap. Their date nights are special events: Sonny shows off in the kitchen on nights when they eat in and Rafael finds different ways to share little parts of himself as a sort of thank-you to Sonny opening himself up for so long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael plays old records from Cuba that his Abuelita and her family brought over. He shares memories from his history as a mouthy boy from the Bronx who never strived for anything less than the best. When they share a bed, whether it succeeds sex or comes after a night of holding one another close, swapping tender kisses and worn clothes, Rafael whispers the truths he is too afraid to speak about in the daytime. In those times, he can face the fact that he is utterly in love with Sonny Carisi, even when he steals his breath with one kiss and affectionately calls him a koala for holding him close, even when his rustling removes the blankets from him in the middle of the night. Even if the memoir’s completion threatens to isolate them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It reminds Rafael of a conversation he had when Sonny brought up his dating history. He had gotten permission from the two men he had seriously dated during his time as a Mets pitcher to talk about their time together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Lane was the first one. We met four months before we started dating. He wasn’t into sports that much, but he grew to enjoy baseball. We dated for a few months shy of three years before we broke up. He got a job offer in Cincinnati that he wasn’t going to pass up and that I wasn’t going to stop him from making. Matthew was the second. We met on a dating app and lasted about a year and a half.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As far as I know, I was the only openly queer baseball player on my team. I am not the first to play and I am not the last. But it is very rare for them to play in the MLB and to be open about it. If you do not pose as a straight man, chances are you will not play. I still don’t know how I was able to, but I’m forever grateful that I did and for as long as I did. It gives me the chance to share my story, and it emphasizes how important it is that no sports team should gatekeep athletes from playing on their teams. Our place on the team should be earned by our skills and not unspoken biases.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny, his legs curled up to his chest, stares at the coffee table. It’s only the second time Rafael invited him over while he wrote and it’s gone much better than the first, mostly due to the lack of a migraine. “I should have said something sooner, shouldn’t I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael glances over at him, finishing up his latest sentence while still looking at Sonny’s curled form. “About what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Being queer. I didn’t talk about it for a decade. How is that being open about it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael removes his glasses, placing them atop his head for now, and leans back into the couch. “You told me everyone knew. Your family, your teammates and coaches, your friends—your neighbors even. You haven’t hidden anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I never confirmed it. I never said it as a player. I waited until retirement.” Sonny looks up, eyes filling with a sadness that twists Rafael’s heart. “And for what? Some people think being gay and an athlete are two separate things that prevent you from doing one or the other. But it’s…not true. I’m living proof.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There had to have been rumors at least. People talk and word spreads around. A queer Major League Baseball pitcher isn’t that obscure. And even if it wasn’t, no one has the right to question when you decided to make it this public. What effect does your partner’s identity have on your skill as a baseball player?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny sighs at that, seemingly resigned to the lost argument, but Rafael catches the thankful smile and glance he throws his way when he resumes typing. At least it got him to smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Through the months he writes, Sonny delves deeper and helps shape out his reasons for wanting to publish a memoir. Even if his age—he’s only in his late-30s—may suggest he has more years ahead of him, he wants to at least share a bit of his less public life to his audience. He put layers of emotion into what he says; he is hardly ever ingenuine. Sometimes, his emotions speak too much for him, muddling his brain for a moment and distracting him from the bigger picture. Rafael does his best to bring him out of that, whether he’s working or not, and ground him again. Sonny’s passion for sharing his story and sticking to it is evident in his actions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s always more than one perspective to view in a situation, whether we’re talking about history or different conflicts around us. I can say with certainty that there will never be a shortage of white men to go around; people do not need to hear from me about what that’s like. As a bisexual man who played in the MLB for a decade, there’s more to be said. Even that alone has more substance than me complaining about being white. Pansexuality, and bisexuality as an umbrella term, are still stigmatized, both in and outside of the queer community, and that stigma doubles for bi men. We are considered floaters between queer and straight spaces, unable to make a decision and stick with it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>We are valid in our identities. Just like any other person.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s Sonny’s idea to have a chapter entirely dedicated to highlighting how he came to terms with his identity and addressing the stereotypes he’s faced in and out of queer spaces. It means they have a few more lines to add to their official sources of information, but the research to back his points is worth it. Especially when it allows Rafael the chance to see Sonny deep in thought, reading articles and thinking aloud. He floats between “bi” and “pan” to describe what he’s experiencing. The more he reads, the more he leans to pansexual, the more Rafael writes and shapes for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When I was still in college, I casually dated people like anyone else, just going out with people from class or friends of my friends. During that time, when it came to discussing who we were in terms of identity, two gay men and three straight women suggested that my sexuality was a phase. I couldn’t be bisexual because I was dating them. I couldn’t be pansexual because it wasn’t a real thing. To say I was bisexual was to say I was trying to figure things out, or that I was trying to remain straight and not committing to my attraction to one gender. I am bisexual in the sense that I am attracted to people who share my gender identity and those who don’t. But more importantly, I am pansexual because I do not look at a person’s identity to determine my attraction to them. But that isn’t good enough for some people.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No matter what style his hair may end up in on their joint research days, Sonny always finds a way to mess it up. His emotions flow through him like an electric current, exiting from the waves of his hands, clutching his words and covering his voice to emphasize his passion for whatever he may be speaking about. Rafael knows it’ll be difficult to put that inflection into words when he isn’t the one speaking, but he can only hope that his efforts are good enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I am one man and I am not a professional in this field, nor do I want to pose myself as one. But I know that being bi and pan is just as valid as being gay or straight. When we reject it by enforcing the belief that we haven’t picked a side or we use it as an excuse to cheat on our partners, we invalidate so many individuals and deny them of living freely. It’s so much more than the binary system of gay-or-straight.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For impersonal relationships, I use bisexual’s visibility but pansexual’s definition to define myself. I’ve had people in my professional career come up to me and ask about being bi. I do what I can to educate others and offer insight, especially when it comes to being pan. And if I can’t, then I direct them to a place where they can find out more. Ignorance won’t help anyone. There is always room to learn something new. And that applies to anything, not just identities that aren’t ours.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Sonny talks about his college years, it’s in a different light than what Rafael is used to. Typically, alumni reminisce with rose-tinted glasses on their days as a college student, focused on the extracurricular aspect rather than the academic. Sonny spent six concurrent years as a baseball player for the Fordham Rams and as an aspiring lawyer. According to his story, it took a trip to Fordham to finally realize what he wanted to do. Everything he’s done throughout his life has been a service to others.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My family has always made it a mission to help others. That sounds typical, I know, and there are probably dozens of other people who will say that. But we practiced it. My parents would volunteer at Project Hospitality; for their confirmations, two of my sisters logged in their community service hours there. Bella and I used to help our mom serve food while Teresa and Gina helped our dad pass out drinks. As kids, we used to ask why they needed help. Why was this parent living at the shelter with two kids? Why couldn’t this person go back home?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Our parents told us to not ask why. Not everyone wants to talk about “why.” Maybe no one has a “why”—sometimes, life just happens. But it shouldn’t matter when our motives are to help them out. When we go to those shelters or those people, it is our job to support them, not to ask how they got there or why they can’t do better. That’s not going to help. What will help is serving hot meals, giving away clothes or toys, providing company.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That last one always seemed to do the trick. Talking to people—about mundane things, like a dog I saw on my way over or how hard it was to stack playing cards and then proving it by trying to make a house. Hearing them out—whether it was to let them vent or just listening while they made little comments about their day. I noticed as I got older that it was always something unsaid. Requests for food or clothes or housing were more common than requests for a laugh or a conversation.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny Carisi seems too good to be true—he can pitch a harsh slider, he lives in a modest apartment but splurged on a good kitchen, he speaks up for others. Rafael didn’t believe he was so genuine until he saw it for himself. Until he saw him speak and watched the fire and passion spin in his eyes, stumble around his words at one point but clear up at the next. Until he realized, with Sonny napping on his couch, hair mussed from the pillow and legs stretched into his lap, that there is no person more committed to doing good for others than this man. It feels so much like love, Rafael can only hope it doesn’t fade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael smiles at Sonny’s napping form, reaches over to run a hand through his hair, and then continues writing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Now that I’m not playing baseball anymore, there’s a lot of questions for what’s next. Will I settle down? It’s been a while since I’ve seriously dated. Will I practice law? I still have my degree; I still study law when certain developments pop up; I renew my license. I very well could go into it. I’ve always felt compelled to help others. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For now, the best I can answer the question “what’s next” is: be happy. That’s all anyone deserves.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>B7</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Whoa there,” Cyrus laughs at the pitch that Sonny throws from home plate to Ed’s mitt. “Throw another slider like that and you’re gonna retire us again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny chuckles. “Isn’t that the point?” He catches the ball with a grin as Ed raises his catcher’s mask and glares at him in time with Cyrus. “What, I’m not allowed to show off?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can show off if it means we still look good,” Ed fires back. “You retired a few months ago, Carisi. Give us a second to catch up and then you can style your moves.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nick’s proposal for a charity game had gotten headway by many other players across the league, both retired and current players, two of which included Nick’s former teammate and left outfielder Cyrus Lupo and the former catcher Ed Green, who played for a handful of teams across the east coast and was last seen in Santa Fe helping out the independent Pecos League. They had enough players for an East Coast-West Coast battle that would take place in Omaha, Nebraska, a neutral location for both teams, and with at least one player per Major League Team represented. Nick, as the captain for the east coast team, had arranged them to train at least once a week. Traveling to New York, where most of their players were living or were at least neighboring, was only required once a month until they got closer to the date reserved for the charity game, two weeks before the regular season.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hence why Sonny was taking turns with Mike and two other relievers throwing pitches on a Tuesday in the middle of February. The indoor stadium wasn’t anything that either New York players were used to, but it would do for now when the wind chill had dropped the temperature.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike returns from a run to grab the rosin bag and jumps in with the banter. “I don’t see you doing anything spectacular, Lupo,” he taunts. Ed cackles as Cyrus rolls his eyes and swings his bat outside of the batting box. “Why don’t you show us what you got after four years before you start talking?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I already hit a double to center-right,” Cyrus quips. He gives the bat a look-over before he returns to the box.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You asked for something to hit,” Sonny points out, juggling with the rosin bag before stepping on the mound again, “even though you would’ve gotten out two times with the amount of strikes we’ve thrown.” He just smiles when Cyrus narrows his eyes at him. “What’d’ya want, a cutter?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gimme a fastball.” At the suggestion, Ed readjusts his position to properly catch the ball. Sonny, without making any other movement, loosens and adjusts his fingers so that he’s holding the ball with a bit of space between his index and middle finger and his thumb underneath the ball. He takes a deep breath and decides to add a bit of a pause to the pitch. He winds up, but he holds it for two seconds—much to Cyrus’s displeasure—before throwing the ball. Cyrus swings and misses, and almost instantly starts mumbling under his breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny reigns innocence and shrugs. “You said you wanted a fastball, so I gave you a fastball.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I gotta fastball for ya.” Cyrus flips him off; Sonny gasps in mock offense as Mike guides him away from the mound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nice show,” he says. “Let me try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny grins at Cyrus and Ed. “If you wanna see someone showing off, wait ‘til you see Mike’s pitching.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let‘s see it, Dodds,” Ed jeers as he gets back into position and Cyrus returns to the batter’s box.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike’s pitches are not as fast as they used to—a fact only noticeable to baseball players, according to Rafael—but he still knows where the hitter’s blind spot is and how to throw the ball right there. His windup was adjusted thanks to his injury, but other than a simple roll of his left shoulder after each pitch he tosses, there’s nothing to change. Sonny is ecstatic as ever for it, and why wouldn’t he be? He would play batter when Mike was cleared for playing and he saw the pain that crossed his face, layered his voice, tensed his body. Sonny, who was going to relieve him like old times, was already expecting Mike to last an inning or so less than he was used to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pitchers cycle through practice throws and players that finish up their batting practice go to their field position and practice there. Sonny and Mike take a selfie to post on social media and to garner some hype. Although their years playing together only lasted so long, they’ve seen many a tweet from both Mets sources and news outlets with a photo or video of their bonding. The raised eyebrows and Mike pointing over his shoulder to the field behind them should be good enough for a tease.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they break for lunch, Sonny catches up with some of the other players he hasn’t seen in a while. Ed Green had been with the Phillies for three years when Sonny and Mike were playing together. All three of them were happy to amp up the Mets-Phillies rivalry, but once Ed was traded to Seattle, they eased into a friendly comradery. Ed was born and raised in Manhattan, so his visits to the city often included a coffee with Sonny and Mike. Cyrus Lupo, like Nick, had played for the Yankees and maintained both a friendly rivalry and a casual friendship with them, but once Sonny learned that Cyrus also had a law degree, they saw more of each other and often talked or debated about the ins and outs of New York law.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t seen you in the baseball loop in a while,” Sonny points out to Cyrus when they’re getting ready to head back to practice. Nick had come in to round them up at the end of lunch and offer a few more plays to work through. “You finally put that law degree to use?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cyrus chuckles and shrugs. “I’ve thought about it,” he admits, “but I don’t know what I’d practice. There’s a lot more law than I thought.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny only hums, fiddling with his glove and adjusting the strap at his wrist. He had considered the different practices he could delve into—criminal, mostly, though he wouldn’t know how effective he would be as a defense attorney, and maybe a little corporate. Only because he had seen a few titles in Rafael’s work office that stood out to him and had skimmed a few pages when Rafael wasn’t looking. (Or, at the very least, when he thought he wasn’t. Rafael always provided a snide remark about his reading habits, as if he had been the one to tell him to read the material. At least he provided a kiss or ten each time.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about you, Mister Fordham?” Cyrus teases lightly. “Now that you’ve joined the retired club, what’s your next step?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have a memoir for that,” Sonny smirks, recovering from the swell of insecurity in his gut for now. Cyrus only sighs at the response. “I guess you’ll have to read it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or just watch your interview on Midnight Inquiries.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny flinches; he must have spoken a little too loud when he told Mike about getting the top interview spot on the late-night talk show hosted by John Munch, comedian and conspiracy theorist extraordinaire. At least it wasn’t supposed to be a complete secret. “Yeah, that’s a good alternative.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Cyrus pats his shoulder, “regardless of what you do, you’ll do great at it. You’re a good man, Sonny.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny smiles at that and relaxes, even if for a few seconds. He doesn’t know how well it will actually turn out, but he’s grateful to have support. Mike has helped him transition to the common restlessness of retirement by bringing up some activities they can do together (they’re partial to helping dogs get adopted but Sonny enjoyed that painting class they went to in Brooklyn). Nick, although not as persistent as Mike, shared recipes he found, whether from his family or things he spotted in his day. The Carisi’s, of course, never afraid to lend a hand, always have an offer to volunteer somewhere or do something. At first, Sonny scolded himself for not being able to occupy his own mind. The memoir was a nice distraction, but Rafael didn’t always rely on him. Sometimes, he had a thought or a thread of consciousness and just followed it, page after page, typing away, sometimes until well into the night. But he’s trying not to be so hard on himself. There are better things to do with his time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Better yet, Sonny knows he has nothing to be ashamed of. Baseball has always been with him; for twenty-five years, he’s had the comfort of the game underneath him, ready to save him if he ever fell. But without its constant presence, without the reminders of series and starting times and practices and ball formations, what else does he have? His law degree glares at him; his volunteer work jumps out and scolds him; the rest of the world waits for his answer. An answer that includes something other than a basic “I wanna be me.” An answer that, in which case, will never arrive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny ghosts through returning warm-ups but lingers behind Mike and the other two pitchers. His throws would be called as balls in a game, and he can’t wrap his fingers around the ball to throw a slider. He forgets where he is, for a few seconds, and he’s suddenly twelve again, anxious at every shadow, jumpy whenever someone speaks, cautious if a pair of eyes point in his direction. The baseball doesn’t fit right, the dirt rising from the pitcher’s mound fills his lungs, and his eyes start to blur. Sonny uses an excuse to grab a sip of water, conveniently in the dugout, to inhale some air into his lungs and bring himself back to reality. Thirty-nine years and he has no clue what he wants to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny retreats to the bathroom located outside of the locker room and splashes his face with water from the sink. His hands aren’t trembling, but he feels a wave of nausea take over him. He grips either side of the sink and forces himself to focus, eyeing the droplets on the basin for assistance. As long as he can center himself again, he can pass out all of this and no one would be the wiser.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sonny?” There’s a knock on the door following Mike’s voice. “You alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take as much time as you need,” Nick adds. “We don’t want you to overdo it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Sonny states, forcing the words out in a raspy but steady voice. “I’m alright. Just a little overwhelmed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still, it’s better if you go slow.” Nick pauses, then, “you have some water in there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll get some when I get outta here.” Sonny wipes his face off with the bottom of his shirt and takes a deep breath. This can’t be healthy, but how would he talk to someone about this? Surely, there’s some way it comes off as entitled and elitist: a pro baseball player retires after ten years with his dream team and is anxious about his future without baseball. Who would take that case seriously, let alone take it in the first place?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Sonny finally walks outside, Nick and Mike are still there, the former leaning against the wall and the latter staring at the ground in deep thought. They both look up when they hear him come out, and they both release sighs of relief. Mike offers him a warm smile. “I thought you fell down the drain,” he jokes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny replies with a weak chuckle. “Nah, I’m good. Some dust in my lungs can’t take me out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is your hand alright?” Nick asks, nodding to his left arm. “It looked like it was cramping.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, no,” Sonny flexes his fingers for proof, “I’m good. I just wasn’t focused.” Any other day, he might argue that being a relief pitcher makes it harder for him to wear down since he’s expected to play two or three games in a row, unlike starters who rest regularly after one game. But his mind doesn’t work fast enough to get the words out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While Nick refills his water for him in the dugout, Mike scribbles a phone number and contact on a piece of paper he yanks from a duffel and thrusts it toward Sonny. He makes a point of jamming his finger against his sternum and glaring firmly at him before easing off. According to the scrap of paper, the number is a therapist who specializes in mental health for retired athletes. He’s heard of Jeffries and Huang, but he’s never met either of them. Sonny doesn’t say anything, but as Mike passes him, Sonny grabs his shoulder and squeezes hard in thanks. Mike pats his hand and smiles in response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps it would be a worthwhile trip. Anything to find control again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they finally finish for the day, the sun curving west and the smell of sweat washed down shower drains, Sonny gets a text from Rafael. It’s a picture of his computer folder that contains the chapters for Sonny’s memoir. The nineteenth file, the very last one, is titled “Running the Bases - Full Draft 01.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny’s heart slams against his ribs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s done?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He asks, furiously typing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His answer is immediate. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes. Rita has the first draft and starts editing tomorrow.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s great!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sonny swallows the lump in his throat as the initial giddiness settles. The memoir is done. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t believe it’s done.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Consider it an early birthday present.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You don’t have to do that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’s almost scared to ask, but he does it anyway and sends the text before he can delete it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>When can I read it?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Preferably, after Rita’s first read-through. It’s better that you see my writing after all the errors I missed.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny can’t help but smile; he can almost feel Rafael’s smirk through his phone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Still aiming for that perfect image?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You know me. Have we talked about dating?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They have, and they both agreed that they want to pursue a romantic relationship—as boyfriends, though Rafael was reluctant to use “juvenile wording” for them. And neither of them has shown any interest in separating after the book is published. But if he can quickly return to his twelve-year-old fears and doubts, what does that mean for his thirty-nine-year-old doubts and fears?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny writes back, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I think so. Mind refreshing my memory?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sends the text, and then he dials the number for the therapist.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Wow look at how easy it is to have Sonny recognize he needs professional help and goes to therapy!!! Couldn't be the showrunners</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Eighth Inning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This feels weird to say that this is almost done but you know what the ending is really nice and I love these two so much and I hope you've loved them as much as I have</p>
<p>References to SVU: John Munch (of course) and his extensive history in the Homicide and L&amp;O universes, but his story post-Baltimore Homicide is altered ofc for the AU; also John and Fin are married thanks for coming to my TEDTalk</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>T8</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny waits to read the book. Not from a lack of trying, but by his own decision to take his time. It sits on Rafael’s coffee table in wait, still in its first draft form. Rita has a copy of it, apparently, but Rafael refused to look at her changes until Sonny saw it. “This is your book too,” he had said, which Sonny could only respond to with multiple kisses and by pulling Rafael closer. At the time, Sonny has only been in therapy for two weeks—Dr. Huang was a good fit, understanding and soft-spoken, and his experience with retired athletes shone in small tidbits. According to Mike, he had come to their office for Monique Jeffries, who handled physical therapy recovery, and he stayed for George Huang and his therapy sessions. And despite his reluctance, Sonny has found a burden of weight gradually easing off of his shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Sonny does pick up their book, it’s on the same day his family is stopping by for his birthday celebration. They always had a chance to celebrate his birthday, February 29th, and a weekend on a non-leap year was a good alternative. Nevertheless, Sonny is determined to read the first draft in one sitting. He starts in the morning at the island counter with a fresh cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich from Rafael. “Running the Bases” takes up the rest of his morning and, moving to the dining table, a good portion of the afternoon. It’s nearing five-thirty when Sonny is finishing up, less than two hours before his family arrives. Rafael sits across from him and waits, his hands folded in front of him and fidgeting back and forth. Sonny doesn’t notice how nervous he looks until he finally finishes the book and puts down the paper copy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny’s first instinct is to kiss Rafael, so he leans over the table and does so. Rafael inhales sharply and grabs his face, fingers itching over his jaw in perfect rhythm to the molding of their lips. When Sonny moves away, he can’t help but smile, his chest bursting with glee. He tries to open his mouth to speak but he fails; he can’t find the proper words. The book was everything he could have hoped for: every doubt, every celebration, every nugget of inspiration that propelled him to where he now stands. His love of baseball and the conflicts that matched it, from his teenage years to his decade-long career, are worded in a way that recognizes the accomplishments he had and his internal struggles without bashing either side. And that last line…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Be happy. That’s all anyone deserves.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You coulda warned me it was this good,” Sonny says. Rafael responds with a smile and then soft peals of laughter when Sonny kisses along both of his cheeks and his nose. “I knew your writing was good, but I couldn’t have predicted it being </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now you’re just flattering me,” Rafael chuckles. His face glows from the flush decorating his cheeks. “What are your motives here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No motives. Just…” Instead of finishing the sentence, Sonny swoops forward to capture his lips again and steal the breath from his lungs. Rafael holds him close by the back of the head. If he can’t get the words out, he’ll use his mouth for a better purpose. He has so much to say, so much he wants to express, but he portions it into his actions instead. He pours passion into his kiss, hands shifting over Rafael’s body, pulling on his shirt. His gratitude clenches through his fingers, curling over his skin. With each breath they share, he spells out just how much he feels for this man, stuttering in soft puffs and weaving between gentle sighs. As hot as the kiss is, Sonny isn’t trying to woo Rafael to bed. He just wants him to know he loves him, both bare of sexuality and brimming with limitless adoration.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny moves back and keeps their foreheads together while they catch their breath. Rafael is still smiling, still flushing, and his eyes spark with pleasure. If he wasn’t speaking, Sonny would capture his lips one more time, or two, or ten. “I’ll take that kiss as a sign that you liked it,” Rafael teases.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love it!” Sonny exclaims. He hops in his chair and scoots closer, knocking their knees together. “You captured my voice perfectly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael snorts. “That’s the point of a ghostwriter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not for you. I’ve read samples from other writers at Cunei Books. They weren’t as in-depth as this,” he taps on the rough draft of the memoir for good measure. “How do you do it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They haven’t discussed Rafael’s origins in ghostwriting. He outlined his childhood—before his mother got the chance to, and even then she was glad to tell Sonny all about her only son—as well as his relationship with his abuelita and Rita. But Sonny didn’t know how a Harvard graduate with a law degree could co-found a publishing company that specialized in ghostwriting memoirs and books for celebrities. Those were the details left mostly vague and avoided by his partner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael, almost knowing what he’s trying to do, avoids the question with a tilt of his head and a smirk. “Why don’t you tell me what you liked about it before I reveal my secrets?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a fair suggestion, especially when he can always ask later. But Sonny finds himself getting tongue-tied again, his mind scrambling for the words, so he surges forward and kisses him instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With words!” Rafael laughs and pulls back, hands held out to stop Sonny from leaning in. “Your kisses don’t count, as pleasant as they are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny pouts at that and lets out a short huff. “Without prejudice?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael rolls his eyes playfully. “Without prejudice. You can give me as many kisses as you can after the fact.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joking aside, Sonny centers himself by grabbing the physical copy of the rough draft and paging through it. He just lets the pages flutter together as if parted by a soft breeze. He lowers his volume but his eagerness still shines through, jittery in his legs and restless in his hands. “Where do I even start?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, Rita and I typically go back and forth between improvements and praises.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, like pros and cons?” When Rafael gives a half-shrug, Sonny frowns. “But what if I have no cons?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael’s smile is sentimental and tender, and this time he’s the one swooping in for a kiss. Sonny presses back with just as much determination and grins when they part. “I think there’s a bit of bias there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’s your evidence?” Sonny winks and resumes paging through the memoir again. He still catches Rafael’s soft laughter, and his chest fills with so much domesticity that he can only revel in the moment. Just when he thinks he can’t fall in love with him even more than he has, Rafael proves him wrong and makes him do it all over again. His heart swells at the thought of it happening more frequently, but Sonny isn’t sure how he could make that happen. And the one solution he does think up does not sound plausible or appropriate in their current setting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he’ll have to wait on going back to that point. For now, he should focus on what he can actually do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny makes a mental note for a few chapters to reference but he doesn’t say anything until he reaches the end of the memoir twice. Only then does he set the paper aside and shift closer to Rafael. “If I have to give ‘actual’ reasons for liking it,” Sonny sighs, beaming when Rafael chuckles under his breath. “First off, I liked that you added a story at the beginning of the chapters. They all tie into the chapter they’re in, which is nice, but it helps sound so much more like me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a personal person,” Rafael states with a light shrug. “And it was accurate to how I wrote it. Most of the time, when we first talked about your memoir, you just talked about different experiences. And I put in the ones you wanted in the book and could fit into each chapter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It worked out well.” Sonny absently pages through the rough draft. “It really feels like a piece of me is in each chapter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael offers a faint smile. “Wasn’t that part of the goal?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny nudges his calf with a socked foot. “Yeah, but it’s…seamless. Everything has a reason for being added.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm.” Rafael nods to the memoir. “What else?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny opens up to the second page where the table of contents is and points to the titles that separate the eighteen chapters into four parts. “I know we agreed that we should divide the chapters into parts, and I wasn’t sure how it would look, because my story isn’t really…linear, if that makes sense.” He reads the titles of the four parts—“Staten Island Little League,” “Four Seams,” “The Sum of Eighteen,” and “Over the Brim”—marveling at the references between his life and the content within the sections. He had forgotten they had even agreed on those names; it was well before they dated, during the time of their mutual and romantic tension, and Sonny had wanted to help remove some of the responsibility from Rafael’s already full plate. Naming the sections was the least he could do. “I really like that we named the sections instead of the chapters. Especially the third one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We should both take credit for that. You wanted something to be named after your jersey number, and I suggested it go with the third part.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was perfect.” Sonny flips to the third section, starting in the tenth chapter, and rereads the first few sentences after the story at the beginning of the chapter. “I guess this part of me doesn’t have a clear stopping point, y’know? Not like my younger years—even my baseball career wasn’t that obscure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Probably because it’s so personal.” Rafael reaches over to flip to the eleventh chapter of the memoir. “It sounds unreasonable to think that we can figure each other out in a certain amount of time. You have a career associated with your name that you can only relate to so much, but what else are you supposed to do? What else do you have when you’re tired of the only thing you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny looks at Rafael, truly examines him, watching the shift of his arms against the sleeves of a white polo and the coif of his hair fluffed over his forehead. They had shared a brief conversation about Rafael’s past, mostly focused on his upbringing and mostly used to inform him before the introduction of the force known as Lucia Barba. But something itched at Sonny that told him Rafael was keeping more hidden—not necessarily an experience or life event, but something abstract, something that wasn’t feasible in his hands. Wishful thinking tells him it would bring them closer than they could have ever imagined, but realistically, it can only reach a deeper, more personal level.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael catches Sonny’s gaze and leans back again, clearing his throat and looking away. “But, of course, it’s never black and white.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess not.” Sonny pauses to leaf through the book again and finds something else to talk about. If he gets the suspicion again, he tells himself, he should try and bring it up properly. “It probably isn’t hard to organize my baseball career, since it’s only with one team, but a lot of the chapters about my career felt like you were there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael hums in thought. “In a way, I was. I’ve been at games where you and Mike were pitching. Most of the time, I was there for business, but I was able to go as a fan a few times. And before you start,” he adds when Sonny starts to fire back in disbelief, “I didn’t put it together for a few months.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you never brought it up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was I supposed to? I only saw you play, I wasn’t waiting outside locker rooms for an autograph.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That picture of David Wright in your office says otherwise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael scoffs and kicks him. “If you had actually seen it, you would have known you weren’t pitching as often as you deserved, so I wasn’t going to run into you anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Unlikely.” Sonny grins when Rafael just rolls his eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t go into so much detail with my teammates.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We didn’t get their permission, so I wasn’t going to include them. But even then, I don’t think it was integral to the story you want to tell.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not complaining,” Sonny assures him, “I liked it. Mike, on the other hand—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael laughs. “He can get his own ghostwriter. Once we publish your memoir, I won’t be taking new clients.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Permanently?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just for now. When I’m writing, I spend less time running Cunei, so I try to space out the time between books.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny frowns. “You should take a break. This took, what, five months?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t kept track.” Rafael frowns at the disapproving look Sonny shoots him. “What? I’m not an active writer anyway. We aren’t needing ghostwriters. And even if we were, I only do it for special occasions.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny’s interest perks up at that but he stays focused. He knows Rafael is simply deflecting to avoid discussing his work habits. “My point still stands. You’re gonna overwork yourself at this rate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You say that like I’m not already overworked.” Before anything else can be said, Rafael taps a finger on the rough draft of the memoir. “Anything else you liked? Or maybe there was something I can change? I am open to critiques.” He adds a playful smirk to the last part, but it falls a bit flat at the corners. Sonny simply makes a mental note to press on the topic later and skims the memoir again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael clearly put a lot of work into it, and rightfully so—he replicates the writing style of his subjects as if they were writing themselves. Sonny’s voice is clear in each sentence, even the ones that allude to something deeper that gets touched on in another chapter. In some parts, the ones that get more personal, it feels less like replication and more like his writing ability. Sonny has to remind himself that he only offered the material and let it be morphed and shaped into something feasible, something that could be properly articulated. There was no way he would have been able to write on his own and produce this same quality material.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny abruptly remembers where he is and returns to the memoir, landing on the chapter that explicitly states his identity. Chapter twelve starts with his acceptance that he was romantically interested in people who shared his identity as much as he was with those who didn’t. But when he reached his twenties, and when he actually started to meet people outside of his block on Staten Island, he realized just how little his partner’s identity mattered. If he were to pick a label, Sonny muses, he would go with pansexual, simply stating that his love for his partner is not tied down to their gender or sexuality. As long as they were happy, he was happy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know if I would use bi to describe me anymore,” he admits. “Or at least I wouldn’t use it exclusively. It’s not that it’s inaccurate, because I do think a description of attraction to genders that are similar and different from mine is fitting, but ‘pan’ is just…” Sonny rubs the back of his neck as he shrugs, uncertainty flooding his lungs. He’s shared so much with Rafael over the past few months, but this feels strangely impersonal, almost wrong, to bring up. The lack of response—which can only be in respect, judging by the gentle and attentive gaze leveled at him—doesn’t help matters either. Sonny finishes with a long exhale, “It fits better. I’m attracted to a person regardless of their gender. I guess I still fit under the bi umbrella, but it doesn’t completely fit me, y’know? I don’t put a lotta thought into who I’m into anyway. And even then—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s okay,” Rafael breaks in the middle of his rambling to assure him. “Sexuality can be fluid. You can fit with another label if you need to.” He bows his head so that Sonny is looking directly at him, green eyes blazing with determination and sincerity. “You are valid, regardless of what label you use.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny smiles and leans in to kiss Rafael. “I was gonna say, even then, it doesn’t matter, because you’re the one I wanna be with and I’ll take you in any way I can.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael lets out a soft gasp, his lips turning up in a smile with overflowing admiration. When he brings Sonny in for a kiss, that same feeling flows from the soft press of his lips and the hands gently framing his face. Sonny leans into it with just as much emotion; his heart bangs against his ribs, infatuation filling his lungs and tingling at the tips of his fingers. He can’t grab enough of Rafael to hold against him, even when they part so that Rafael can whisper, in a voice laden with a deep yearning, “I love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny tries not to choke on his breath, but hearing those three words strung together sends him into a mental spiral. The phrase hangs between them, all its connotations and meanings held within, a culmination of dedication and affection that has been built up for the past months. It takes all of his energy to withhold tackling Rafael right there; they still have company coming over, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny settles for kissing him instead, pressing against his mouth and then trailing over his jaw and cheek. Rafael tries to speak up but gets drowned out by Sonny’s insistent pecks. He laughs as he holds the back of his neck and leans away so they can make eye contact. “If I had the chance to word everything I feel for you, I would spend the rest of my life putting it on paper and reciting it for you. You opened yourself up to me when I was a stranger. Your successes were easy, but when you talked about your struggles, I couldn’t help but relate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” Sonny tilts his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Having something you love being questioned by new experiences, new instincts? Not knowing what you’ll do without it?” He gives Sonny a sad smile. “My mother found the strength to separate us from my father and I saw what prosecutors did first-hand. Since I was ten, it was all I wanted to do. And then I went to college, and I graduated from Harvard Law, and when I was finally out in the world, I…” Rafael sighs. “I lost myself. Five years at the Brooklyn DA’s office, and every day, it felt like my soul was being ripped from my throat. I met up with Rita one day, asked her for help, in whatever way she could. At the same time, she was looking for someone to help fund a book publishing company. And from the second I agreed, there was nothing that felt more natural.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It took three years to have Cunei Books up and running. It was another three and a half before I wrote something, and another two before I wrote a full book on my own. Ever since I was a kid, I told myself that working in criminal law, helping victims and survivors, was the right thing for me.” Rafael scoots forward and holds Sonny’s face between his hands. The heat radiates between them, caught in their breath, tingling at their foreheads. Sonny’s heart trips over itself with each word Rafael shares to him. “Cunei has done a lot for me, but I didn’t think it would bring me to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny can’t hold back any longer, and he surges forward to kiss Rafael. Their noses knock together, forcing them apart with amused giggles and soft smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know I said I used to think you were some dumb jock,” Rafael sighs, “but I learned pretty damn quickly that that was far from the truth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah?” Sonny whispers. He can barely get the words out. “What did it for you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael glances down at his lips. “Do you remember when we talked in my office, a little after we started having sex?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The same day I saw your photo with David Wright. It’s hard to forget.” Especially after the amount of time spent wrestling with their tongues and roaming over each other’s bodies until their hands went numb.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was the first time you told me about the deeper concerns of your baseball career. How you went with it because it was the only thing you knew. I heard that same yearning in your voice that I had felt when I was trying to put criminals in jail. You fell out of love with something so familiar to you, it was like breathing. The thought of not having it to fall back on breaks you inside. But the pain from carrying on like nothing’s wrong is worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny smiles, hoping it doesn’t feel as sad as he feels; the fact that Rafael could ever struggle the same as him drags his heart down to the pit of his stomach. If he could give Rafael the world, he would leap at the opportunity to wrap it up nicely and serve it to him. Maybe with some scotch. Definitely with some pretzels and chocolate. Or chocolate-covered pretzels. “Two people with different professions ending up at the same place. Who would’ve thought?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They spend the rest of their time before the Carisi clan comes over indulging each other with warm kisses and soft caresses. Eventually, they pull away from each other to get ready, but it’s with hands that still brush against lower backs and overflowing adoration. Rafael puts the rough draft away to keep it away from the prying Carisi siblings, more a precaution than a threat, while Sonny sets the dining room table. His parents were adamant that he shouldn’t cook, but he still had some bruschetta prepared for them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just realized,” Sonny says as Rafael stands on his toes to grab the wine glasses. “I forgot to tell you something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael, confusion swimming in pools of jade, looks over at him. “Tell me what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny grabs the last glass for Rafael and kisses him, warmth stretching to his belly and lighting up at the reciprocation. He doubts he will ever be full of Rafael’s love, and even if he did, he would make room for more. “I love you too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>B8</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a knock on the door to the guest’s dressing room on the set of “Midnight Inquiries With John Munch,” hosted in Barrymore Theater on weeknights. Amanda opens it to invite in a man with dark sunglasses resting atop his head and a neatly-trimmed goatee, who she greets amicably and shakes the hand offered to her. Sonny recognizes him as Fin Tutuola, John Munch’s partner in both work and marriage, often taking his place within the show’s band to play a rotating wheel of instruments but occasionally joining his husband and the guest of the episode.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s good to finally meet you, Mister Tutuola,” Amanda says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fin,” he corrects with a firm nod. He offers a wave to Sonny, sat in front of the mirror, and Rafael, who’s refilling his plate with the snacks offered in the room. Sonny had made a suggestion to add in some of their favorites, including a bowl of grapes for Amanda and a snack mix—of course—for Rafael. “I’m just dropping by to see how you’re all doing, if I can get you anything, if you need talking points until we’re ready for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny chuckles at that. “I think we’re good, thank you. You guys have been generous enough. Is there anything we can do for you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fin offers him a smile that is genuine and friendly, a sharp contrast to the stern expression he had just worn. “Not at all. You’re a guest tonight. John’s excited to have you here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that so,” Rafael muses and tosses back a handful of chocolate-covered peanuts. “I thought he was a Yankees fan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s not much of a sports fan, but he typically sides with the New York team that’s doing better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm. That makes more sense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny rolls his eyes softly at his boyfriend’s comments; Rafael scowls at the gesture and steals a zeppole from Sonny’s plate in retaliation. Sonny mouths “watch yourself” when he takes a large bite from the ball of dough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fin gives them a curious look but doesn’t comment. Sonny’s guest appearance on “Midnight Inquiries” had been scheduled for the second week of March. Amanda was a no-brainer tag-along guest for Sonny, but he and Rafael had agreed that it would be wise to keep their intimate relationship quiet until the book’s June release. Rafael’s presence was, officially, related to the book but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have fun. “Alright. If you need anything, you can let our PAs know and they’ll help you out. John’ll be over in about twenty minutes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re in no rush,” Sonny assures him. Fin says his farewells for now and returns to the corridor outside. Amanda shuts the door behind him and leans against it, arms crossed. The friendliness evaporates from her facade, eyes narrowing when her gaze falls on them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” she sighs, “where were we?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were trying to educate us on our behavior,” Rafael states with a huff. Sonny sags back into his chair when Amanda scoffs and Rafael turns away from her. They were typically cordial with one another, but on an evening where Sonny and his partner had to be discreet, she was persistent and unavoidable in making sure they were doing so. It was only the third time it’s happened, starting after she discovered how intimate they were, but it felt like the thirtieth. And to say Rafael was displeased by all of it was a heavy understatement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wanna blame me for your actions?” Amanda scowls. “You two don’t even need words to tell each other how much you’re in love, and you’ve been officially seeing each other for how long now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s pure speculation,” Rafael shoots back. “We’re explicit enough for each other and secretive enough to pass under everyone else’s radar.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t know you had polls to back up those stats. Care to share them with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, if you two are gonna keep on fighting, can you at least keep voices down?” Sonny snaps as he stands to physically cut off their line of sight. Amanda rolls her eyes; Rafael huffs and takes a seat at the couch on the other side of the room. “I don’t think it’s a good look for either of you if someone overhears you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I don’t think it’s a good look that you decided to date your ghostwriter before your memoir is even published, and yet here we are,” Amanda sneers. Sonny frowns at her tone, lower in volume but just as harsh. “You couldn’t wait a few months for the book to be out, you just </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> to start before it was even finished.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do you care so much?” Rafael asks, chewing on a pretzel and staring at Amanda with venom in his eyes. “You’re so worried about our relationship but you’ve never told us why. Personally, I don’t see why it’s any of your business what either of us does, not to mention us writing the book wasn’t affected in the slightest and I would have written it the way it’s being published regardless of whose dick was in my mouth ten minutes before I finished writing a chapter. And,” he adds, gesturing between him and Sonny with a pretzel rod, “if you want to be technical, the book is done. We’re in the promotion stages now, so why are you hung up on the fact that Sonny is sleeping with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda takes a step forward; Sonny slides between them in case either of them decides to pounce. “Let’s put it this way,” she says. “You’re a journalist for a food magazine and you’re sent to a high-end restaurant to interview the chef and produce an article on him. You get close to him, as expected, but you start dating and you two aren’t ashamed about it. You don’t keep it a secret and are public with your relationship leading up to the publication. But when people hear about this article, they can’t look at the piece you wrote without wondering how much of it is unbiased and how much of it is due to the blending of your personal relationship with your professional one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not fair,” Sonny points out. “Rafael wrote the memoir, but I have partial ownership of everything that was put down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not to mention I was writing about Sonny and used him as my main source,” Rafael adds with a grumble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s the same premise,” Amanda argues. “We can all know your intentions, but no one else does. How are they supposed to know the memoir is telling a true story when their only source of reference is the memoir itself?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are thinking way too deep into this.” Rafael sets his plate to the side and stands. He and Amanda are roughly the same height, spare an inch or two shorter on Rafael’s side, but their energies and personalities cover up the difference. “I would never compromise my work or my relationship. I purposely keep them separate to prevent any assumptions that I can’t do my job properly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda’s lips twitch in a scowl. “That’s not what I was saying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sure about that? Because that’s the only reasoning I can make for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda takes a deep breath, fists clenched at her side before she says anything else. “People will talk. That’s all I want to say. And we don’t need Sonny’s character being questioned.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael snorts. “Are you serious? Would you like to add that I’m a terrible influence on bat boy here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Sonny speaks up firmly before Amanda can provide a rebuttal and Rafael can prod at her even more, “now I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>telling</span>
  </em>
  <span> you both to cool it. We’re here to promote the book and talk about it. Talking about audience reception before it’s even released is pointless, and fighting isn’t helping.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda steps back with an agitated breath; Rafael’s eyes narrow but he stays silent. The tension between them clings to Sonny like a soaked rag. He’s thankful he was at least able to keep them apart. If anyone from the production crew for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Midnight Inquiries</span>
  </em>
  <span> or even John Munch himself had passed by and overheard the conversation, it would have been difficult to explain why his ghostwriter and his manager were arguing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny, seeing that both Amanda and Rafael have cooled down, returns to his chair in front of the vanity. John should be stopping by soon, followed by a crew member to help him get ready and mic’d up for the talk show. “Let’s talk about something else. What can I bring up in my interview?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda pulls out her phone to review her notes. “We got the all-clear from Nick’s team to talk about the charity game,” she states. “They’ve already been promoting it through word of mouth and social media, but you and Nick are the firsts to be interviewed about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, he’s doing one with Olivia, since she’s helped organize it, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amanda nods. “They had it earlier in the day, so even though you can’t say anything that hasn’t already been discussed, it’s good to mention it for this crowd.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can do that.” Sonny had met Olivia Benson through the various events over the years, especially with her organization focused on bringing awareness to sexual assault survivors and advocating for an end to the rape kit backlogs in the U.S. He was glad to hear that she would be helping out with the charity game. Sonny turns in his chair to face Amanda. “Aren’t Olivia and John friendly?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’ve worked together on various projects since John Munch left Baltimore’s Homicide unit,” Rafael replies, still working through the snacks offered to them. “And if I’m not mistaken, Liv introduced John and Fin.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Liv, huh?” Sonny smirks at him. “Are you friendly with her too?” Ever since he had found out about his boyfriend’s history with his former teammate, Sonny had made it a mission to find out who else knows Rafael Barba. Already, aside from David Wright, there were two others with baseball ties they had both met on separate occasions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael rolls his eyes playfully. “Rita has worked with Liv in the past and our paths have crossed. Each time, Rita’s had to separate us so we can get back to work. So we started meeting for Thursday lunches once a month.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Unbelievable. Who else do you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A better question to ask is who </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> you know,” Amanda scoffs, still twinged with bitterness but at least more of a tease than an invitation to fight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael, thankfully, chuckles. “I can make a list, but it’ll take a while. You’d be surprised how many celebrities want Cunei ghostwriters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a knock at the door, quickly followed by the familiar voice of John Munch requesting entry. The energy in the room shifts when the comedian enters the dressing room; the iconic tinted sunglasses and black attire worn by the talk show host cements the fact into Sonny that he is a guest on the talk show tonight. John Munch had been a detective with the Baltimore Police Department’s Homicide unit and started doing stand-up routines to ease the pain and struggles that came with the job. It eventually picked up and spread across the state of Maryland, and then to neighboring states, and eventually stretched to nationwide audiences and a full-time job, a mid-life crisis as he joked in routines. A deadpan delivery paired with a passion for conspiracy theories and odd phenomenon, John Munch became a household name for comedians and eventually landed a hosting gig for nighttime television. Sonny was honored to simply receive an invitation to the show, let alone attend it, even if a recently retired southpaw reliever with a ghostwritten memoir didn’t fit into the mold of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Midnight Inquiries</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s discussions centered on questioning anything and everything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John smiles at Sonny as they shake hands. “Sonny Carisi, number eighteen for the New York Mets. I’m glad to have you on the show tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s an honor to be here, sir,” Sonny beams. “Your show is brilliant, honestly. I didn’t think I knew so little about the Kennedy’s until I watched your shows.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad you think so. They’ll be taking up a good portion of our night.” Even through the tint of his glasses, Sonny catches the teasing wink as John moves to greet Amanda and Rafael, both treated with equal hospitality and friendly jabs. John Munch moves quickly on TV but his lean figure makes it look much faster in person.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” John muses to Rafael, “I asked you guys if I could publish with you once upon a time, but the scheduling never worked out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael nods, immediate understanding flashing over him. Sonny finds himself fascinated with how fast he is in switching to a work mind for just a few seconds. “Right, we were trying to coordinate two others with international tours at the same time. I wish we could have arranged something. I would have taken on your book myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As long as it’s not personal. I know you and Rita founded Cunei Books, but I actually helped popularize cuneiform six thousand years ago, so maybe we can work out a collaboration another time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael laughs. “I speak for both of us when I say we’d be delighted to work with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John turns to Sonny and Amanda, arms crossed in front of him, exuding a calming air around him. “Is there anything I should avoid bringing up in our interview? Any question or detail you didn’t mention in our previous conversations?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing’s changed from last time, so you’re good,” Amanda assures him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nods. “And our conspiracy for the night, we’re still good for that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been looking forward to it for a long time,” Sonny says. John Munch’s show was different from the other late-night shows. It included a monologue at the beginning and guests, like any other would, but the second half was focused on bringing up recent events or conspiracies to discuss. Its purpose was more to encourage others to be less afraid of asking questions, to be curious, and pursue education from legitimate sources. Sonny had always enjoyed listening to it, even if it was simply background noise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad to hear it,” John grins. “I know our professions don’t cross over, but we don’t just cater to audiences with tinfoil hats.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny returns the smile. “And we don’t play for meathead jocks, so we’re on the same page.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John laughs at that; Sonny doesn’t miss the sly chuckle Rafael makes either. “You know, I’m surprised they didn’t put you as a starter, with the way you can pitch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny shrugs at that, bashfulness rising in his throat and glowing through his cheeks. “I preferred being a reliever. I was a starter in college and it always wore me out.” He can feel Rafael’s gaze on him, gentle and curious, but he doesn’t look over. “But I guess I was a starting reliever. When people back on Staten Island would ask how I was doing, Ma would call me that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John’s eyebrows raise in piqued interest. “A starting reliever. Could I use that for your intro tonight?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, go ahead! I think my family will really appreciate the shout-out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A crew member enters the dressing room to get Sonny ready, lav mic in one hand and a makeup bag in the other. Amanda chats with him to help ease his nerves; John invites Rafael to his room and the two go off to talk more. The crew member jokes that Rafael might not return until the show begins and John has to go on stage. John was known for his talk show for a reason. Sonny laughs at that but internally, he hopes it’s not true. He wanted to share one last moment with Rafael, maybe a kiss or three, before then. Especially if he was going to be talking about their book. Sonny would have preferred Rafael’s verbal confirmation to mention him as a ghostwriter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In no time at all, the starting time for the show is ten minutes away. Even in Sonny’s dressing room, he can feel the atmosphere change as last-minute details are added or finalized before they’re on the air. Sonny, the mic set heavy on the waistband of his slacks, holds back from pacing in the dressing room and tosses back a few handfuls of trail mix. Aside from the mild nerves Sonny is used to having before making a public appearance, Rafael has yet to return. The crew member hadn’t been joking when they said John would talk someone’s ear off if given the chance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re live in about five minutes,” one of the production assistants tells him. “Once John’s monologue starts, we’ll bring you backstage and make sure you’re ready one last time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny simply nods and blanks on whatever else they say to Amanda. He debates whether or not he could ask for Rafael’s whereabouts but decides against it. Rafael can handle himself, and there’s little to no chance that he ran into trouble—at least trouble that he didn’t cause. He’s probably still talking to John or on his way back to the dressing room if they’re nearing their starting time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears them before he sees them. Sonny pokes his head out of the dressing room to confirm John and Rafael walking back down the hall, flagged by two other crew members, just as engrossed in a conversation as when they left. He wants to hold back his excitement but as Rafael gets closer, Sonny can’t help himself. He rushes over and earns their attention in the process. Rafael looks at him, all casual warmth and a secret affection that only Sonny notices. His hand itches to reach out and grab hold of Rafael’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sonny, good to see you again,” John says, breaking him out of his stupor. He gestures to Rafael. “We were just talking about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All good things,” Rafael adds with a smirk. Sonny wants to kiss it off. He settles for an amused laugh instead. “I didn’t slander your name that much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you suggesting there was good slander to spare?” Sonny shoots back. Rafael’s eyes flash, an equal desire that demands more than the fleeting touches and spare glances they’ve had to dole out tonight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael hums in mock disinterest. “Perhaps. I’m not sure if it’s safe for work.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny’s gut stirs at the response. “Really. I thought you were a man of words, Rafael.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael’s eyes blaze and flicker with intrigue at the retort. But before he can speak, John—of course John Munch witnessed their hopefully discreet attempts at flirting—speaks up. “‘As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest form of appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.’ JFK said that in one of his last speeches before his death.” He looks between the two of them and smiles, almost knowingly, at them. “I’ll see you onstage, Sonny.” He walks off without another word or any other acknowledgment, effectively leaving Sonny and Rafael in the middle of the corridor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whether or not John Munch knows about them, the quote hits Sonny square in the chest as the answer to his mild dilemma. The words he would have used to ask Rafael about announcing him as his ghostwriter vanish. They have long since agreed that Sonny’s memoir was a joint project. In the contract they signed, the memoir was referred to as “authored by Dominick ‘Sonny’ Carisi, Jr. as told by Rafael Barba.” The people they worked with either emphasized Rafael’s work over Sonny’s lack in any writing or pushed Sonny’s story being told over the absence of Rafael’s life in the work itself. Regardless of what Amanda said or didn’t say, regardless of his doubts, the memoir was equally Rafael’s as much as it was Sonny’s. And it should be treated as such.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And if the highest form of appreciation is to live by words rather than say them, Sonny is more than happy and willing to show his intentions through his actions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I kiss you?” Sonny suddenly asks. Rafael blinks at him and then nods, already pulling Sonny in when he leans down. The kiss doesn’t last long, but the tenderness of it and the gentle caress of Rafael’s thumb across his jaw makes up for it. Sonny grins when they separate, unable to stop himself from sharing two more kisses in quick succession. The look of pure bliss on Rafael’s face when they separate is starting to become a common expression between them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you need a bit of courage?” Rafael asks in a low voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something like that,” Sonny hums. “I was gonna talk to you about something, but…” The tension melts from his shoulders and whittles away to nothing. “I’m alright now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope so. You can always talk to me, even if we’re on a bit of a time crunch.” His eyes flash with concern that vanishes when Sonny holds his hand and pecks the top gently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I promise, I’m okay.” Sonny smiles at him; Rafael’s shoulders sag with the release of an invisible weight. “It’s nothing that can’t wait until after the show.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s a relief. We can’t have you embarrassing yourself on national television. Although,” Rafael smirks and gives his shoulder a playful nudge, “your baseball career already did enough damage to your reputation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny groans and rolls his eyes. He knew letting Nick tell stories of their early baseball days, back when he was still getting used to the inner workings of a major league baseball team, when he met up with them for lunch the other day would come back to bite him in the ass. “I regret introducing you to Nick Amaro.” A production assistant passes by and directs him towards the main stage. Their hands slip apart as they both step towards their respective areas. “I’ll see you after the show?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll be here.” He gives a small wave as Sonny walks off, and right before he turns the corner, he catches a warm smile spread across Rafael’s face accompanying the overwhelming pride brimming in his eyes. Sonny has to clear his throat twice to recenter himself and focus on the PA and the directions they were giving him. Even if he’s not physically there, Rafael is with him in every step and every word.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The push for his interviews was that he was working on a memoir. Initially, Sonny didn’t see the difference, but after witnessing Rafael at work, crafting the book and bent over his laptop until well into the night, it brought an unpleasant taste to the back of his mouth. Even though Rafael’s name would be officially associated, Sonny’s press releases and formal conversations about his memoir mentioned him as the sole writer. It didn’t sit right with him, and he had voiced his concerns long before the interview on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Midnight Inquiries</span>
  </em>
  <span> was even suggested to him. But he hadn’t been able to come up with a way to do something about it until now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John Munch’s monologue is typical of his style, poking fun at anything he can reach and supplying a serving of self-deprecation for his deadpan delivery. Fin adds a few one-liners, matching the script of John’s monologue with his off-the-cuff responses. The crowd has good energy tonight, Sonny can feel it. All those years of playing in front of one and he can still read them as if he had never left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They go to commercial and John takes his place at his desk. Sonny straightens up the sleeves of his blazer while his forehead is patted down. The nerves jump up his throat again, reminding him that he is about to be seen and exposed to hundreds and thousands of people, possibly millions. He cools himself down with a pinch to the inside of his right wrist, and it brings him back to the pitcher’s mound, as early as college, when the nerves would get to him and he struggled to find himself in the anxiety and worry that he wasn’t good enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words from his memoir stick out to him. Sonny swallows roughly at the memory. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Be happy. That’s all anyone deserves.</span>
  </em>
  <span> In a way, it’s Rafael’s wish for him. And even if it’s not, Sonny will grasp at whatever he can to keep Rafael near and close to his heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Our guest tonight was a starting relief pitcher for the New York Mets,” John announces when they return from commercial. “He found some Internet fame during the 2015 baseball season and is now releasing a memoir to tell us what Twitter hashtags and viral photos couldn’t. Please welcome, the Staten Island southpaw, Sonny Carisi!”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>pan sonny rights pan sonny rights PAN SONNY RIGHTS</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Ninth Inning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The last chapter is tomorrow and I don't think it feels real wowowowow</p>
<p>If you've read this far: thank you!! I've really enjoyed bat boy and pen boy being as in love as they are. I worked on this for the past few months and the world-building has been so much fun! Rest assured I am not done with fics like that and there are going to be plenty more Barisi goodness from me &lt;3</p>
<p>Baseball references: I've peppered in Sonny being able to mess with how he winds up (aka how fast or slow he throws a pitch) and I got the inspiration from a pitcher I followed in college, Ethan Small, whose windup changes are best demonstrated <a href="https://twitter.com/PitchingNinja/status/1131888689758527488?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E1131888689758527488%7Ctwgr%5Eshare_3&amp;ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.12up.com%2Fposts%2Fvideo-this-overlay-of-mississippi-state-pitcher-ethan-small-s-four-distinct-deliveries-is-nuts-01dbn4hr1ja3">here</a> and it's truly hypnotizing</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>T9</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mike comes up to Sonny in the dugout as their batter pops a fly ball to first base and ends the fourth inning. Another month of training and two weeks of practice with a full team were both met with success, and the weekend to Omaha, Nebraska for the charity baseball game was upon them. The interviews from Nick and Olivia, two of the organizers for the event, and Sonny’s guest appearance on <em> Midnight Inquiries </em> had added to the buzz of the game. Players who couldn’t make time to participate as a player in the game or had played with their teammates in the past encouraged viewership and promoted the game, some of them unprompted and with their own declaration of donations. When they flew out to Omaha three days ago, Sonny relished in the silence of the ballpark as he walked on the field for the first time. The baseball stadium in Omaha was the location for the national championship for Division I universities. Sonny never had the opportunity to see the stadium as a college player, and even though Rosenblatt is demolished, the new stadium for the College World Series carries the same energy that Sonny had always imagined.</p>
<p>The score is tied at two but the West Coast team has done a better job at getting to the bases. At the very least, Mike has done amazing at the mound, playing infield when a ball lands near him, getting out two would-be base stealers and keeping the hits at five. It wasn’t very far into the game, so they had a way to go, but Sonny was sure they could come around with a win before the ninth inning.</p>
<p>“Once we finish up in the fifth,” Mike says, “you’re up to pitch. I’m getting some pain in my shoulder and Nick doesn’t wanna risk anything”</p>
<p>Sonny nods and scoops up his mitt from the bench. Relieving pitchers usually stayed in the bullpen to warm up during a game, but he had spent the last half-inning with the team to hear an update. Earlier in the game, he had been warming up when a ground ball whizzed past Mike and nearly hit his left side. A few minutes warming up and he should be prepared if Mike has to leave the inning early. “No worries. It looks like they’re not risking anything. Your curveballs are getting called out.”</p>
<p>Mike lets out a huff. “You’re telling me. Winters trained them pretty damn well. I’d bet money your windup changes are gonna get called out.”</p>
<p>“Good thing I don’t even know when they’re coming out.” Sonny winks as Mike chuckles, and they head out to their respective fields. He overhears a few cheers directed at him as he jogs out to the bullpen. If the West Coast captain taught his team with him in mind, he would have to be quick at the mound. His pitches were slower than Mike’s just by coming from a left hand, but if he could throw his fastballs well enough to familiarize them with his pitching, he might be able to sneak past their defenses and get them swinging on his specialty pitches.</p>
<p>Sonny throws a few fastballs to warm up before he delves into game mode. Whenever he was getting ready to relieve Mike, he went through a ritual of practicing the pitching types he used regularly three times each. After using a standard windup, he would adjust the speed he used to throw the ball three more times per pitch per speed. His family called it another typical baseball superstition, but Sonny had allowed his fewest hits in his professional career with the method and he wasn’t going to stop now.</p>
<p>Just when Sonny is about to throw a cutter with a delayed windup, he hears a familiar voice from behind him. “Looking good, bat boy.”</p>
<p>Sonny turns and looks up at Rafael, smirking at him and leaning over the wall where other fans had been watching him warm-up. Even through the eagerness of the crowd, Sonny hones in on Rafael. The blue Mets cap on his head is worn on the rim, a relic Rafael swears was bought in Shea Stadium, but the jersey is new. Sonny had tackled Rafael when he saw his latest purchase, admiring the pale grey and thin navy pinstripes, paired with the “Carisi” spread above the large “18” on the back.</p>
<p>“You’re still using that nickname, huh?” Sonny chuckles as he walks to the gate of the bullpen to take a swig of water, his grin growing when Rafael only shrugs in response. “You’re lucky you’re taller than me right now, pen boy. I dunno if you wanna see my answer to that.”</p>
<p>Rafael hisses and clutches his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Sonny. That’s a low blow.”</p>
<p>Sonny rolls his eyes and adjusts his stance so he can resume practicing his pitches. “Are you really that butthurt over it?”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t say butthurt, unless…” Rafael pauses, and Sonny waits until he throws his pitch to look back at Rafael, whose eyes are clearly trained downward. Sonny’s amused laughter breaks him out of whatever trance he had gotten himself into. Rafael looks almost embarrassed, but the curve of his lips and his tone say otherwise. “You’re talking about another butt.”</p>
<p>“I think we already had that conversation.” Sonny catches the ball and prepares for another pitch. He’s thinking about winding up faster to keep the batters on their toes, but his quick pitches had higher chances of being balls rather than strikes. “Save your thirsting for after the game.”</p>
<p>“You can also jump up here and see me.” Sonny doesn’t have to turn around to see the grin plastered on Rafael’s face. Even if it hadn’t been suggested, Sonny would already have plans to hop up and steal a kiss or two from his boyfriend. Rafael simply enjoyed provoking him for an added bonus. “Break our agreement. Maybe indulge me a little.”</p>
<p>Sonny shakes his head. “You’re so persistent.”  He pitches a slider with a fast windup—a successful throw, if a bit closer to the strike zone than he would have liked—and asks his catcher for a few minutes. Mike has one strike on the current batter and two men on base—one from an error and the other from a walk—but according to an update from their bench, he plans on staying for the rest of the inning. Sonny has some time to spare. Discarding his glove for now, he strolls over to the wall so he can jump and pull himself up onto it. He’s perfectly level with Rafael now, just a few spare inches between them. He can smell the beer wafting around them and a slight tease of the concessions. Rafael always enjoyed a snack. “Hi.”</p>
<p>Rafael smiles at him. “Hi. Glad to see you took my offer on coming up here.”</p>
<p>“Really? Even though I had to break your line of sight from my ass?”</p>
<p>“Well,” Rafael hums, glancing up in mock thought, “that’s a bit unfortunate, but it’ll appear soon enough.” He nods to the field. “Are you relieving Mike in the next inning?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, Nick doesn’t wanna risk him playing for too long. I think Mike negotiated with him to let me warm up a bit and at least finish the inning.” A few fans with Mets gear a few rows back spot him and wave, calling out to him with well wishes. Sonny waves back with a thank you; the two kids with them run over and politely ask if he could sign their hats. Sonny smiles as Rafael hands over a sharpie—as a writer, he always has one, and why else would he have a nickname for a pen—and adds smiley faces next to his signature. He reminds them to do the right thing, his typical message to younger fans, as they thank him, gushing while they return to their family and ogling each other’s signed merch.</p>
<p>“He’s done well,” Rafael points out as if they hadn’t been interrupted. “Only two runs and five hits. His defense is good. You wouldn’t think he had an injury.”</p>
<p>“It’s Mike Dodds,” Sonny shrugs. “He sprained his right index finger during a Blue Jays game once and Cragen had to physically ban him from the dugout when he tried to sneak back in after his evaluation. You wanna talk about change, though,” he looks over at the dugout, where the team is returning to at the end of the inning, Mike getting the recognition he was always deserving of as he walks off to congratulatory pats and cheers, while Nick guided the rest of the team to prepare for the upcoming innings, “I’d bet money Nick is gonna be a coach one day.”</p>
<p>Rafael looks over at him; the warm-up catcher tosses Sonny’s mitt up to him and they exchange the ball a few times. Baseball was just as much a game of uncertainties than it was a game about statistics: the bottom of the fifth could pass rather quickly or slowly drag on. “I can see it. Think he’ll join the dark side?”</p>
<p>“He’s just like me for the Yankees. He was raised to be a fan and he’ll go down that way. If he coaches, it’ll only ever be for his team.”</p>
<p>“Mm. I dunno, Miami is appealing to us Cubans.”</p>
<p>Sonny nudges him despite the knowing smile twitching at the corners of Rafael’s mouth. “You gonna join him?”</p>
<p>“I might.” Rafael leans into him, his hand falling beside Sonny’s hip and inching ever closer. “I do enjoy sunny weather.”</p>
<p>Sonny grins at the pun and steals a quick kiss from him. Rafael hums into the gesture, pouting when they separate. “I don’t give you enough of it? So much you don’t even need to go outside?”</p>
<p>Rafael rolls his eyes. “If that’s the case, you only like it for another reason that I’m not going to say right now.” A few other fans, all with gear from teams on the east coast, ask for pictures or autographs, all with brimming approval. An older couple even waves Rafael into frame with them, and Sonny can’t help but pull Rafael close to him, his solid build warm against his side. Rafael adds once it’s the two of them again, “It’s bad enough your sisters keep on throwing innuendos at me. It’s like they’re trying to get me to crack.”</p>
<p>Sonny, halfway to returning the ball to the catcher, lowers his left arm. He had invited his family to come along but only his sisters made the trip; Dom was terrified of flying and Christine volunteered to watch the kids anyway. Either way, his parents were watching the game and had supported him the night before. “What’re they saying?”</p>
<p>Rafael gives him a reassuring smile and grabs the crook of Sonny’s elbow, fingers taut on his uniform. “Nothing terrible. They’re simply desperate to find out more about us. I’d give them a hint, but…” He shakes his head, his eyes shining with sincerity and dedication that Sonny feels flaring through his veins. “It doesn’t feel right to do it without you.”</p>
<p>With one leg swung over the other side of the wall, Sonny pulls Rafael in and kisses him fiercely, all hands and lips, both with gentle caresses. The salty remains of a snack are obvious now that he can taste him, and if he closes his eyes, Sonny can get the remnants of the morning coffee, the familiarity alone kicking up another wave of affection. If at least one of his sisters spotted him, hopefully, they would get the message and lay off on the pestering until Sonny was there. One sister was manageable, but if all three were involved, there would be no stopping them.</p>
<p>Sonny pulls back when a ball soars behind them for a home run; Cyrus Lupo could always spot one before the ball even left the glove. He looks at Rafael, whose eyes are trained on the field amidst the roar of the crowd around them. There are so many shades of green colliding in his eyes, each of them more vivid than the last, every single one special and unique and dear to Sonny’s heart. The second they’re trained on him again, Sonny will have no choice but to be bound to whatever they demand. “I love you.”</p>
<p>Rafael turns, lips already quirking up in mutual agreement. He preferred showing it rather than saying it when they were out in public. Sonny didn’t mind—it was all the same to him. “Speaking out loud again?”</p>
<p>“Just stating the truth, as always.” Sonny grabs one last kiss from him, and a few more, before he slings his leg over and hops back down to the bullpen. He gets the ball from his catcher and passes it to a younger fan in a Pittsburgh Pirates jersey. “I’ll see you after the game?”</p>
<p>“Right outside your locker room.” Rafael chuckles when the kids adjacent to him start to call out different pitches for him to throw. Sonny promises he’ll get to as many as he can before he has to play. “I’ll be entertaining your sisters if you need me.”</p>
<p>“I always do, Raf. You always know where my hat is.”</p>
<p>Rafael smiles fondly, if a bit exasperated. “I believe it’s on your head.”</p>
<p>Sonny taps his cap with a giant grin. “See? You always know! I’d be lost without you, pen boy!”</p>
<p>When the fifth inning ends and Sonny finally jogs out if the bullpen, among a plethora of cheering from the rows of fans, he thinks about Rafael. He tips his hat to the crowd; he circles the mound once before he throws his first practice pitch to Ed Green. He tightens his glove around his right hand only to take it off, turn his back to home plate, and crouch down to cross himself. As always, during a game, he makes a quick prayer for every players’ safety, and for a fair and honest game of baseball, another ritual he has picked up for some good luck. And all the while, the only pair of eyes he can feel are Rafael’s. He knows the box he’s in, the angle it gives them of the field and Sonny—they would be facing his back when he got ready to make a pitch. He has Rafael’s grip on his elbow, his kiss on his lips, his love in his chest and on his tongue and around his heart. And the second the inning starts, Sonny tables his smitten longing and switches into playing mode, striking out his first batter without so much as a brush over the bat.</p>
<p>The game ends with a victory for the west coast side and a one-run difference. Sonny had lasted until the ninth, ending his appearance by running to Mike and hopping into his arms, and their team had been one baseman away from at least tying the game. The west celebrates their win but takes more time chatting amongst the east coast players once the official handshakes are done. A pitcher from the Dodgers comes up to Sonny and asks for pointers on changing his windups. When Nick and Olivia announce the amount of money they’ve raised for both of the charities the teams were playing for, it feels like the entire city of Omaha is erupting in applause. Sonny inhaled the sight one last time, a baseball stadium full to the brim, happy to have gotten the chance to see a good ball game. The weather had been clear and blue all afternoon—and the few clouds that did cross over them were nothing more than a dollop of whipped cream to an otherwise perfect day.</p>
<p>Sonny mingles a bit longer on the field to chat with other players, passing by a few fans and stopping for pictures. By the time he reaches the locker room, his sisters and Rafael are already waiting for him. Bella spots him first and runs over, wrapping him up in a large hug. Sonny grins and squeezes back as Bella sways with him.</p>
<p>“You were amazing, Sonny!” She says. “I’m sorry you lost!”</p>
<p>“It’s alright, it was fun!” He insists. He backs off when she scrunches her nose and mumbles about the sweat smell, Teresa and Gina joining her in their apologies and hugs.</p>
<p>“It was always gonna be a close game,” Teresa points out. “You guys both had good rosters.”</p>
<p>“It was the windup, for sure,” Bella states. “They knew all about it, Sonny! They were well-trained.”</p>
<p>“What’d you expect, they weren’t newbies,” Gina scoffs.</p>
<p>“I mean, some of the guys told me they had at least two days focused on hitting pitches with timing controls,” Sonny interjects before they start bickering. “So they weren’t unprepared.”</p>
<p>Bella makes a face at Gina, who scowls and flips her off, instigating a fierce debate between them; Teresa and Sonny share the same look of defeat, either taking a side with their sisters or acting as mediators. More importantly, Sonny catches Rafael, standing off to the side and watching the four in a mixture of amusement and wistfulness. Sonny steps around his sisters to sneak over, his hand immediately finding Rafael’s as they both reach out for the other. “Hi,” Rafael greets him. “I’m sorry you lost.”</p>
<p>“I’m not too upset over it. It was a lotta fun.” And he means it—not only was it fun playing with old teammates again but experiencing the atmosphere of a game is something he will always miss about baseball.</p>
<p>Rafael smiles at that, small and shy as it is. “I’m glad. You looked like it. You were amazing on the mound.” Sonny notices the thin spiral notebook under Rafael’s arm when he reaches for it and opens it to the first page. It’s a scoring book, an action long since outdated for baseball fans and only common with game runners,  but a scoring sheet nonetheless, all done in perfect pencil markings. “I asked Nick on some pointers so I could keep track of the game. You’re right, by the way—he would make an excellent coach.”</p>
<p>Sonny looks over the scoresheet with a wave of admiration. Rafael was a fan of baseball, that was knowledge to them, but he never said anything about scoring. It warms his heart to see so much dedication and time put into one day, regardless of his views on the sport. Scoring is a complicated practice with different things to keep track of during the game. Rafael mentioned watching his sisters and having their chaos to deal with and to think he had to sit through nine innings of their antics while watching the game and keeping track of players, the ball, and bases is impressive, to say the least. And that includes the break he took to see Sonny at the bullpen. “Why? Just because?”</p>
<p>Rafael shrugs, turning a bit shyer and scrunching his shoulders up in a weak attempt to hide away. “I wanted to show my support for you, but it’s not a bad pastime to have. And it would have been weird if I asked to be in the dugout during the game, so this was the only thing I could think of.”</p>
<p>“Just you being here is enough.” Sonny grabs both of his shoulders and squeezes, unable and unwilling to stop the earnest feelings stretching from his fingertips and getting lodged in his words. “Just you being <em> with me </em> is enough.”</p>
<p>“Can’t I be a little sappy?” Rafael teases lightly, his smile brimming with warmth and equal amounts of love for him.</p>
<p>“That’s my job,” Sonny sighs with a dramatic eyeroll, “but I guess I can spare a little bit for you.”</p>
<p>“You should be nicer to your ghostwriter,” Teresa says, officially joining them while Bella and Gina still argue. “He’s been talking up a storm about you.”</p>
<p>Sonny chuckles. “I think that’s part of the job, not a courtesy.”</p>
<p>“I dunno, it sounded pretty personable to me.” Of the three sisters, Teresa is the kindest—Gina has the most sass and expressive emotions, the kind that has gotten her into many a fight, and Bella likes to lean more towards conniving than genial—but the eldest Carisi has a spark of impish delight in her eyes when she says that. It would be moderately worrying if Sonny didn’t remember kissing Rafael above the dugout for this exact reason.</p>
<p>Rafael only shrugs when Sonny gives him a curious raised brow. “I was asked questions. I provided answers. Was that not in our contract?”</p>
<p>“Depends on what you were saying.”</p>
<p>“It was nothing slanderous, if that’s what you mean.”</p>
<p>Sonny leans in a bit closer to him. “So share it with me.”</p>
<p>Rafael darts a glance at his lips. “Do you expect me to remember everything I said up there?”</p>
<p>“A little. You were able to score with them around,” Sonny nods at his sisters.</p>
<p>“It might have been a little distracting,” Teresa pipes in. “What with your uniform and all.”</p>
<p>Sonny beams at that. Rafael huffs as his cheeks darken to a dusty red. “Ya don’t say.” He steals a glance at Rafael and purposefully bites on the inside of his cheek. Rafael is trained on his mouth with laser precision, firm and unrelenting in his indifferent stance. “Is that true, Rafael?”</p>
<p>He emphasizes his name just the way he knows will drive Rafael insane, the kind that shortens the “Ra” to make room for the “fai-el.” It’s not an accurate pronunciation of his name, but when Sonny’s tongue is faster than his brain, he’ll trip up on it and rush out the letters. Just as Rafael tends to swallow the “o” in his name and roll out the “knee” pronunciation. It typically happens when their minds are a bit more focused on licking inside each other’s mouths, feeling each other up, or just plain fucking, but that feels more like a footnote in this instance.</p>
<p>Rafael swallows roughly and clears his throat. “Are you requesting that I admit to liking your ass in a baseball uniform?”</p>
<p>“Your words,” Sonny points out, resulting in an eyeroll from his partner, “but yeah, I like the sound of that.”</p>
<p>Rafael curses him under his breath in Spanish. “Personally, I’d rather not objectify you in front of family members.”</p>
<p>Sonny whistles. “It’s that raunchy? Damn, Raf, what were you thinking up there?!”</p>
<p>“Oh, please,” Rafael scoffs, “I already told you how good your ass looks in those pants. Is it really a surprise that I was ogling your ass today?”</p>
<p>“No.” Sonny kisses the tip of his nose as compensation, internally rejoicing when it garners a flushed pair of cheeks and a warm smile from Rafael. “But I like hearing it anyway.”</p>
<p>Rafael, scorebook tucked under his arm, grabs Sonny by the waist and pulls them flush together. Their bodies radiate heat in the warm spring air, the sturdy trunk of Rafael’s body grounding him in this private moment. Sonny’s arms wrap around his waist, fingers curled into the small of his back, right where he likes it. Rafael practically purrs out, “It’s not like you gave me the option to look anywhere else—our box was facing your ass, for God’s sake.”</p>
<p>“That wasn’t intentional, I promise.”</p>
<p>“You might have to convince me otherwise, sir.”</p>
<p>Sonny hums and kisses him on the cheek, then the lips, and then he’s diving forward, wrapping Rafael around him, submerged in his smell and feel and taste, enclosed from the rest of the world. “I have some methods,” he breathes out between kisses.</p>
<p>“I fucking told you both,” Teresa seethes to Bella and Gina, though Sonny doesn’t have the attention or the energy to focus on them right now. Rafael is all he sees.</p>
<p>Rafael grins and pulls him back in for more. “I’d love to see them all.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>B9</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“‘Entertaining; a look into the life of an underrated Mets pitcher with a flair of advice for younger generations.’”</p>
<p>Rafael lets out a long sigh and sets both of their coffees down on the dining table. “I want to ask if this is in any way related to your praise kink, but I don’t want you to think I’m shaming you for having a praise kink.”</p>
<p>The reviews for <em> Running the Bases </em> were coming in with the release of the embargo, and Sonny had been reading each and every one he saw. A good majority of them were positive, although there were a few who had comments about queer folk playing sports that left a sour taste in his mouth and anger in his belly. Both Rafael and Rita had assured him that obsessing over each review was not going to be good for him, no matter how much his curiosity demanded otherwise.</p>
<p>Sonny doesn’t answer and instead scrolls down Twitter, skipping to the next review among the curiosity. There would only be four recorded on the back and Rafael had left Sonny with the task of deciding which one. At this point, Sonny muses to himself, he’s probably regretting that decision. “‘The voice of Sonny is perfectly emulated through his acclaimed ghostwriter Rafael Barba and gives us a look into the person Mets pitcher number eighteen Carisi never had the chance to show us.’”</p>
<p>“I like that one,” Rafael hums, smirking over the rim of his coffee. “That’s worthy of going on the front.”</p>
<p>Sonny rolls his eyes and continues. “‘You don’t have to be interested in sports to read this. As I learned from this book, there’s a lot of unknowns outside of our comfort zones, and we don’t know what it’s like there until we take a chance.’” Sonny drops his phone on the table and reaches for his coffee, letting the warmth of the drink heat up his hands and ground him back to the moment. They would have a press release in two days, a week before the release of their book, but as much as Sonny wanted to have a peaceful day off with his boyfriend, he didn’t think his anxiety would allow it when there were opinions from critics to worry over.</p>
<p>“Sonny,” Rafael says, reaching out with his palm facing upward, “if you’re going to read these all day, can you at least take breaks in between?”</p>
<p>“I’m only reading the good ones.”</p>
<p>“But you’re not looking for them.” Sonny doesn’t answer. He takes a large gulp of coffee, uncaring if he sears his tongue on the way. “You’ve been at this for almost an hour now. Why are you so dedicated to reading these tweets?”</p>
<p>Sonny goes to his text messages and opens up the screenshots Amanda had sent him. A few tweets were speculating on the “true intentions” of Sonny and Rafael’s relationship, as well as the validity of the memoir. A few of them had some engagement with them, but a good number were lengthy threads discussing it, including references to the charity game a few months ago. Amanda had merely informed him of the chatter and left the decision up to him and Rafael on how to react to this news, but Sonny didn’t know what to do. He wanted to be happy with Rafael and not worry about the smaller details that so many others were trying to spotlight. And yet here he was, ruining what could have been a perfect morning by giving them the attention they wanted.</p>
<p>Rafael takes his phone and reads the screenshots, eyes roving the screen and his expression growing more concerned with each tweet he reads. Sonny stands to grab some more food but, more importantly, to avoid Rafael’s reaction. The possibilities that can come out of it run cold in his veins.</p>
<p>“Are you ashamed?” Rafael asks plainly. His tone borders on icy, almost like he’s expecting a negative reaction.</p>
<p>“No,” Sonny says, looking over at Rafael to confirm it. Being with someone had never felt as right until he was with Rafael. He loved every second they could spend together. Rafael opened his heart, imprinted his handprint along the surface, and wrapped him in an embrace Sonny never wanted to leave. And even if he did feel ashamed, there was no room for it. “I’m upset because there are so many things that are more important than being queer, but all anyone is gonna care about is my sexuality and our relationship.”</p>
<p>Rafael frowns, waiting until Sonny returns to the table before he continues. “Sometimes, it’s all they can focus on. Sports are still hyper-masculine. Look at all the support men’s teams get compared to women’s. Is it any surprise that the women’s national soccer team has to fight for equality from their employers and FIFA? Besides the fact that there are hardly any out men on any team in the top three franchises, and those who do come out only do it publicly after they retire—”</p>
<p>“Or they don’t make it to retirement,” Sonny concludes. He stabs a few potatoes with his fork to seethe out his irritation. “You don’t have to remind me.”</p>
<p>“How do you want to respond to it? You can say something as easy as saying nothing.”</p>
<p>Sonny snorts at that. “Oh yeah? And how’s that?”</p>
<p>“No matter what, I’m going to be right next to you.”</p>
<p>The remark softens him up just a little, and Sonny reaches out to grab Rafael’s hand. They could joke all they wanted about how sappy Sonny could be until Rafael tried to take the title away from him. Sometimes, it was better to accept his boyfriend had managed to outdo him and hold him tighter as a reward.</p>
<p>“Has Amanda asked you what to do about the pictures?”</p>
<p>Sonny shakes his head. “Not really. She just wanted me to see it since I asked her to keep an eye on any reception she saw related to us or the memoir. I haven’t even thought of responding to it.”</p>
<p>Rafael gives a quiet snort, gently rubbing his thumb over Sonny’s knuckles. “But you were going to torture yourself looking for more comments like it?”</p>
<p>Sonny scoffs. “What else can I do? My only options are announcing our relationship and keeping my mouth shut.”</p>
<p>“Again,” Rafael squeezes his hand tightly, raising it so he can gently kiss the top, “whatever you decide, I’m standing by you. If you’re really that hung up about it, you should go with what feels right to you.”</p>
<p>Sonny thinks about his options for a moment, but instead, his attention drifts off. He remembers showing Rafael the magic of baseball when he was under the impression that his ghostwriter knew nothing about the sport. There was the first time Rafael invited him over to his apartment because his migraine was too strong to function normally. It was also the first time they kissed, unable to stop themselves, unwilling to try and limit it. Sonny remembers every single writing session, every time Rafael was his shadow, every question, and answer, and conversation. In the months since they started dating, and the months since they evolved to an intimate relationship, and the months since Sonny was introduced to Rafael Barba, with his thick beard and thicker skin and forward attitude, they could only go up.</p>
<p>So much has felt right since he announced his retirement, but the world still feels like it’s spinning without him. Like he’s running the bases of a game that hasn’t quite ended, of an inning that continues to drag on. He always hated that about baseball; there was always one game that had to drag on, where an inning could last what felt like half a day. The difference now is, when Sonny ends up going back to home base, there’s an extra runner behind him, an extra run batted in that isn’t going to hesitate just because the catcher and third baseman are preparing to get him out. Despite the uncertainty staring him down, Rafael isn’t going to buckle under the pressure.</p>
<p>Sonny has considered his options now that he is without a career, and although his baseball money is not going anywhere, he is still a Carisi. Staying active, helping others, always moving forward: it’s in their blood. Teresa, Gina, and Bella all have careers or jobs that are centered around their family’s ideals. And now, Sonny tells himself, it’s his turn to do the same.</p>
<p>Sonny and Rafael cancel the press conference and schedule an interview to officially settle the issue. They are dating, and they were working together for several months, but the two aren’t and never were synonymous. Rafael will resume regular business hours at Cunei Books in due time to recover from a rigorous writing schedule. Sonny, while still uncertain and figuring things out at a pace he finds suitable, looks at his Fordham Law degree and views his options. Defense attorneys always seemed untrustworthy—and Rafael, given his brief stint as a prosecutor, always had a monologue or two about them—but there were people out there who needed protection, people who were queer and didn’t have the same resources or accepting family that Sonny had been lucky to have.</p>
<p>Baseball has given Sonny just about everything. He found his best friends, he has financial stability, he met the person he dreams of marrying and spending a honeymoon on a Mediterranean coast with, basking in a blaring sun and dancing under the night skies of the Italian countryside. His retirement helped solidify his identity as Sonny, the person his twelve-year-old self dreamed of being but was too terrified of admitting to.</p>
<p>But now he can enjoy it. Now, Sonny can come home to a boyfriend—a fiancé, a husband—and cuddle under huge blankets. He can spar with old teammates and rivals on weekends. He can wake up, take three deep breaths, and swing out of bed, ready to build his law firm and use his influence for good. He can relish in living just to see a new day and wait for the next.</p>
<p>He can be happy. It’s all anyone deserves.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Post-Game Conference</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Post-Game Conference</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Staten Island Southpaw and The Bronx Ghostwriter: From Unlikely Pairing To Power Couple</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>by Elana Barth</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Their contract for a book deal detailed how they would write a memoir for the retired New York Mets pitcher. It didn’t have details for falling in love, so they added their own.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael Barba and Sonny Carisi first met when the relief pitcher for the New York Mets announced his retirement and a book deal to release his memoir. But Barba was familiar with number eighteen’s work: he had been a witness to the 2015 Wild Card game that featured Carisi, had been a regular attendance member since Citi Field opened, and remembered the games where Carisi’s talents as a southpaw (left-handed pitcher) truly shone. These details would simply add to their decision to develop an intimate relationship alongside their functional professional one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, with a release date for the memoir in their sight, Barba, 49, and Carisi, 40, are opening up about their relationship—not just how they met, but how they became work partners and evolved into what they refer to as both “boyfriends” and “romantic interests.” It all depends on who you ask.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I had the opportunity to interview them the week before their memoir, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Running the Bases</span>
  </em>
  <span>, was released. Several critics have praised it as a personal look into the life of a baseball player “in a way that hasn’t been granted [to us] before” (Alexandra Cabot, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stonewall Journal</span>
  </em>
  <span>.) Among the topics breached are Carisi’s personal struggles with his sexual orientation and the years he debated leaving baseball behind.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>It’s an absolute pleasure to finally meet you.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: The pleasure is all mine! You’ve published some amazing works. I used to read your articles on revisions to criminal law before I passed the bar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: It’s good to see you again, Elana.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Of course you two know each other. You know everyone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>That he does. How are you two doing? Your book will be available to readers in seven days, but you both released statements insinuating something between you two that goes beyond work relations, and it’s caused a spike in attention from the public eye.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: Sonny said we were trending, I think.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Don’t try and play that game. You wanted to know why you were getting extra attention online. You were scrolling just as much as I was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: That sounds like semantics to me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Would you like to delve deeper into what you two meant when you said you would be coming clean?</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: I think our wording made it clear that we were going to make a few things clear to those who were raising questions about our relationship since we noticed some people were interested in aspects that aren’t related to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Running the Bases</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Which, as much as we can understand, we don’t want it to take away from the memoir.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Yeah, I was nervous that people would be more focused on a former Major League Baseball player kissing a man than the struggles he had to get to that point. We shared a kiss at the [Joyful Heart–ACLU] charity game in Omaha and some fans got pictures and were asking around about it. Which, you know, that’s unavoidable. We don’t have a problem with that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: No, not at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: The problem is more the focus on “oh, he’s kissing a man, he must be gay” and only that, which just trivializes the memoir and takes away from the real topic that we tackle in it, which is discovering your self-worth over the years and forming your identity as you get older.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Let’s get it out of the way, then, shall we Sonny?</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Sure! Sorry, Raf, looks like you’ll have to sit out for now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: My ego will recover.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Running the Bases</em>
  </b>
  <b> makes a point of focusing on identity throughout your life. Without giving too much away from the book, and without overstepping any of your boundaries, would you like to share what you’ve come to terms with?</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: I always knew I was queer in the sense that I wasn’t just attracted to women, I am attracted to a person regardless of what they identify as or who they are. So if I had to use a word for it, it would be pansexual. My attraction to a person is not based on their sexuality or gender identity. I flipped between that and bisexual for a while, but I came to terms with being pan while writing this with Rafael. We didn’t want to just allude to it. We wanted to emphasize it and say it outright.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Judging from the responses you’ve received so far, you achieved that. Is there any reason why this memoir is coming up now after you retired from baseball?</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Yes and no. I wasn’t in the closet when I was still playing. [New York Mets Manager] Cragen and the team knew, my family knew, and the partners I dated during that time all knew. I didn’t go public on a national level because I don’t want to be the queer baseball player, you know? I want to be the baseball player who just so happens to be queer. And unfortunately, the sports world is not at a point where we can accept being a baseball player who is also queer. Plus, I had some partners who preferred that I keep our relationship on the down-low, whether it’s because they weren’t out and were struggling with their identity or they wanted privacy, and I totally get that. I was just another relief pitcher for the Mets, but I had some credit to my name. Especially during the 2015 season.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: Not to mention the lack of correlation between baseball and your personal life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: That too. It never needed to come up. If the question had come up during relationships with people who were okay with me being open about us dating, I would have said so. But it never really did. In press conferences after games or practices, they never asked because it wasn’t related to baseball. And to anyone who thinks I should have said something because I can’t play baseball and be queer: your opinion on me was unaffected before you knew, so why did it suddenly change?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: That’s an easy one: bigotry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>So retirement made it convenient for you to publish your memoir.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Yep. I don’t have anything else to do. I always planned on this, way back when I first started on the [Minor League Baseball team] Brooklyn Cyclones, and over the years it just became more obvious. There are kids out there who want to play baseball but might not feel like they belong because they don’t see people like them, and being queer is a perfect example of that. I want them to know they can be themselves and they don’t owe anyone anything. They can be as open or closed as they want if it makes them happy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Going off on your retirement, now that you’ve retired and the season has begun, do you have any plans that maybe weren’t discussed in your memoir?</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Right now, all I can say is I’m looking into finding my own law firm. I think it’s the best way for me to make up for not being louder about my identity. I’ve been to Pride, I’ve donated and raised money for different organizations, but I decided not to come out on a wider stage for my reasons. I stand by those reasons. I don’t stand by the lack of credit or attention that queer athletes receive. So to give back to the queer community, I want to open a law firm specifically for them. Laws don’t always favor us, even in more liberal places like New York, and for people who don’t look like me, it’s even more extreme. I have the money to make it happen. So why shouldn’t I?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>That can do a lot of good. You’ve got a great head on your shoulders, Sonny.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Ah, I try my hardest. I’m a cis male in good physical health who doesn’t face the same issues as others who are dating men or someone who shares their identity or even someone who doesn’t fit into what others think is normal. They deserve to be heard.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At this moment in the interview, Carisi takes a moment to look at his partner. Barba has kept his eyes on him the entire time he talked. Neither of them has to say anything to show how dedicated they are to one another, how much they believe and support and would do anything for each other. I almost excused myself to allow them some room, but they kept the moment between them and looked to me to resume the interview.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They are entirely self-aware and absorbed in each other at the same time, and it’s almost admirable how much they can make it work.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>This question is for both of you: the title of the memoir is </b>
  <b>
    <em>Running the Bases</em>
  </b>
  <b>. It’s clearly a baseball reference, but what else is there to it, especially as a pitcher? Why choose that for the title?</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: The title was a joint effort. We wanted to reference baseball but nothing too on-the-nose, and “southpaw” isn’t as universal as a term as “running bases.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Not to mention you love to call me “bat boy” even though I hardly ever bat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: (laughs) It’s a flattering remark, sir.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: But yeah, we wanted something that could reference baseball but is still relatable outside of baseball. There’s more to baseball than running the bases and getting home to score points. There’s more to me than baseball. There’s more to our lives than what is seen on the surface. And I think we did a good job of conveying that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>From what I’ve read of it so far, it truly meets those expectations. The writing is phenomenal, the emotion is gripping the entire way through, and your title’s purpose is evident on each page. Even the section names. “Staten Island Little Leagues,” “Four Seams,” The Sum of Eighteen,” “Over the Brim.” Was there any significance in naming each section instead of the chapters?</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Well, initially, it started as one of Rafael’s signatures. The other books he’s ghostwritten are divided into sections and I volunteered to name them to ease some of the load off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: Yes, naming four things was very much help.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Yeah, not like you were busy writing eighteen chapters about my life and had to replicate my voice. Naming the sections was the least I could do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: You’re lucky they were good names.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>You two have a rather interesting dynamic and it definitely shows. Not only were you work partners for the duration of the memoir’s creation, but it overlapped with your time as romantic partners, which is still ongoing.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: For now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Yeah, I actually have an itinerary for how our relationship will end.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: I knew it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Would you two like to discuss how your relationship became what it is today?</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: I’m okay with it! (to Rafael) To whatever extent you’re okay with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: Sure. We don’t have a lot to hide in the first place. (to Sonny) You can reveal our secrets. You tell it better than me anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Well, a few months into writing, I had gone over to help Rafael, and in the middle of reviewing what he had written, we ended up staying the night and spending more time together. And then a few weeks after that came the discussion of “what are we doing and should we continue it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: I will take partial credit, since I took the time to travel from Manhattan to Queens to have the conversation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: You already had partial credit for being in the relationship with me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: I’m simply covering my bases, making sure I have insurance. You can never know when a scam will hit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>It’s very clear that you two have a connection, and it’s evident in how you talk to one another, the banter back and forth, your body language. Was there any effect, Rafael, on how you wrote the memoir?</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: Not really, no. I would argue I was more aware of certain feelings he had or experienced during a certain time because of our relationship, so it was easier to have deeper conversations. There were concerns we’ve seen that question the validity of Sonny’s thoughts and my writing, specifically how of course I would want my partner to be seen in a positive light, and of course I would do anything in my power to make that happen, but Sonny’s character wouldn’t have allowed for that. Typically, when I ghostwrite or when [Cunei Books co-founder] Rita and I are advising our writers during their projects, we emphasize painting a positive outlook for the subject, even if our opinions on them are lacking in that outlook or there’s very little to work with. You’re writing as them, so we have to write with their voice in mind, and for memoirs, you really lean into putting them in a positive light. Sonny is the antithesis of that. He’s very intense in what he’s feeling, he’s very vocal about, and there was little that I saw or that he presented and I had to tweak because everything he feels is genuine and he says it. Very little is fake about him, and he views himself rather modestly, so writing with his voice was my biggest concern. And for the record, if we didn’t end up dating, I would write everything the exact same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Aww. Do you mean that?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: Maybe a line or two there, but overall, yes. Even separating work, when we touched on something deep from your past, I expected it to have some sort of difficulty, but we were honest and open and it’s helped our relationship.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: Yeah, I agree, I mean, we aren’t perfect by any means, and I know I can be overbearing, but we’ve always been open with each other, and I always appreciated that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: We have, and it means we have to define boundaries a little more, but it’s nothing that we wouldn’t already be doing. It just means that someone has their toes stepped on a bit more often. But we can communicate with each other and avoid grudges or long-term issues, I think.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: No, I agree, one hundred percent. It’s one of the things I love about you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael: Well now you’re just being sappy. Or flirtatious. Either way, my surprise at this point is limited and you’re absolutely guilty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sonny: (laughs) I’ll take the plea.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After my interview with Carisi and Barba, I finished reading the rest of the memoir. It is gut-wrenching to navigate Sonny’s travel through the public sphere of professional baseball while narrating the struggles he experienced simultaneously. Sonny Carisi’s track record follows him: he is a genuine person, caring and thoughtful and mindful. Rafael Barba embodies him flawlessly, from every sentence strung together and every punctuation mark. There were times I thought Carisi’s accent was bleeding through his words, proving Barba’s talents once again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I have reviewed several of Barba’s works before, but none have been at such a magnitude as this memoir. I give credit to Rafael Barba for writing beyond expectations. Your talent with words and your ability to provoke with so little to say and so much to imagine never ceases to amaze me, but this memoir is by far your best work. I give credit to Sonny Carisi for his strength beyond baseball. Your identity is valid and I admire you for speaking up so boys in little league who are feeling what you felt all those years ago can be successful and confident in who they are.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I give credit to both of them for their integrity and their thriving relationship. Happiness truly is what anyone deserves, and they found it within one another.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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